A Motley Fool
by Phantom Night Owl
Summary: Deformed boy meets cynical girl. Not exactly love at first sight, but no one ever said that the road to happiness didn't conceal a few sharp stones. A modern tale of second chances. A story of friends, lovers and music, with a little of the Bard thrown in for good measure.
1. Knock knock Who's there?

**Hi Everyone! The premise for this fic is loosely borrowed from an old movie called The Goodbye Girl. The basic set-up is taken from the film, but doesn't necessarily follow it. After the first few chapters, it will take off in an entirely different direction. Any lines lifted from the film (more or less) are marked with an asterisk.**

 **Updates will be once a week, possibly more. We'll see.**

 **As always, what is begun _will_ be finished.**

 **I hope you like Motley Fool, and if you do, please take a little time to tell me so.**

 **Obnoxiously long disclaimer: I own nothing of** **William Shakespeare,** **PotO,** **The Goodbye Girl,** **or any of the delightful music contained herein** **. Or for that matter, my house, my car, uh...my new living room, the washer and dryer, the dog. Oops! Forget that last about the dog. We do own him. Anyway...well, you get the picture.** **I'm not making a** **red** **cent** **(or a blue one for that matter)** **from this potboiler, or whatever the hell** **this** **is. I just know that every author inserts this little thingy in here, just in case.** **I think I've made it clear that I own nothing. 'cept the dog.**

* * *

All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players... (William Shakespeare)

* * *

She tugged on her daughter's hand, nearly dropping the shopping bags she held gripped in her other hand. "Come on, Min, shake a leg! We've got things to do yet before we leave."

"Like what?"

"Well, like hauling all those dirty clothes out from under your bed, not to mention those empty chips bags someone put there."

"Oh. _That_ stuff. I don't know how it got there."

"I'm not naming names, you understand, but the one who made the mess can clean it up. Wanna help me out by taking care of it for your poor old mother?"

The seven year old chewed on a finger as she thought about it, and finally nodded. "Can we have mac and cheese for supper, Mom?"

Christine looked into her daughter's wide blue eyes and shrugged. "Don't see why not. We'll make a salad too. All right?"

"Sure, but do I have to eat it?"

The glance she gave her daughter was one of long suffering. "That's the whole idea! Eat your veggies and you'll grow up to be a chip off the old block."

Min rolled her eyes at that. "I'll stick with the mac n' cheese then."

Christine pulled the girl close and gave her a one armed hug. "You're a twerp, ya know that?"

"Yeah, you tell me that all the time."

Min hopped up the steps of their building, holding tightly to her own shopping bag. She spied Mrs. Turley, their landlady, sweeping the entry and stopped. "I got a brand new swimmin' suit and a yellow dress, Mrs. Turley. Wanna see?"

Christine, a little out of breath, caught up with her daughter. Oh, to be a seven year old again.

"Florida, here we come, Mrs. Turley! You'll be the first to get a postcard from Miami Beach."

The stout landlady, her skin a warm mocha, looked the other woman over with a jaundiced eye. "Uh huh. Just make sure you get everything that'll spoil outta there. Two months for food to sit in a warm fridge? No, ma'am! No sense leavin' it runnin' and eatin' up 'lectricity, is there? Should sublet it for that long a time."

Christine stubbornly shook her head. "I don't want a stranger pawing through my things and doing God knows what on my couch! The rent will be paid on time just like it always is."

"That man of yours around? Haven't seen much of him lately."

"Well, no you wouldn't have. He's already in Miami and hard at work."

"Doin' what?"

"That's the exciting part, Mrs. Turley! He finally landed a part in a TV show."

"Uh huh," she repeated, unimpressed and wondering how Nadir Khan got an acting role when he never left the apartment. "What's the part?"

"It's a new show called Dread the Walking Dead."

"You don't say? What part does Mr. Khan have?"

Christine mumbled something, and Min piped up, "Nadir's a zombie! He doesn't say anything, he just groans a lot.

"And _eats_ people!" she added importantly.

"It's a pivotal part in the show though," Christine said hastily. "He attacks the leading man and nearly kills him...and...and everything," she finished lamely. Taking her daughter's hand, she went inside and collected the mail before climbing the stairs to their apartment.

"I know you dig the fact that Nadir is a zombie, Min, but ease up on the eating part, 'kay? It grosses me out."

Her daughter laughed and skipped ahead, waiting impatiently by the door for her too slow mother. "Can I try on my new dress again, Mom?" as she tugged off her red hoodie and ran to her room.

Christine dumped her bags just inside the door. "Go ahead, but first clean that junk out from under your bed!"

She filled the tea kettle with fresh water and put it on the stove. Running a hand through her hair, she rummaged through her purse for her phone. She had tried calling him, but he hadn't answered back yet. A text message would have been welcome right about now; maybe something along the lines of... _miss you, wish you were here_. They hadn't been on the best of terms lately, but a couple of months somewhere different, might bring the old spark back. She hoped. Christine texted him anyway; nonsense stuff, followed by a line of big red emoji lips, before sorting through her mail, giving a little squeal when she spied Nadir's familiar writing. An uneasy sense of disaster was flirting on the edge of her perception, and determined to think only good thoughts, she ignored it, slitting the envelope open and peering inside.

 _What were you expecting, Christine, huh?_ A single sheet of paper. Nothing else. Cathedral bells were jangling a racket in her head. "Not a freakin' letter, that's for sure," she muttered, removing the short note and reading. Now a pipe organ playing Toccata and Fugue joined the cacophony.

Min, on hands and knees beside her bed, had her things in two piles. Good stuff in one pile, odds and ends of discarded food in another. She stared in disgust at a wrinkled apple core covered in gray fur. "Yuck," and with the tip of one finger, pushed it into the throw away pile. She was about to fish out a lavender Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs sweatshirt. "Ooh, my favrit!" when she went still at the sound of harsh sobs.

Frightened, she raced out of the room, nearly colliding with her mother, who grabbed her and squeezed her tight. Way too tight.

"Oh, baby, baby! This is _awful_." The rest of her words made absolutely no sense to the little girl, swallowed as they were by hiccups and gasping.

"What's wrong?" her own eyes tearing up at her mother's grief.

"He's left us for good!" Christine paused, her breath hitching in her chest, eyes and nose leaking, and childishly, she wiped them on her sleeve. "Oh, baby! He couldn't even call me, the damned coward! H-He's f-found Someone Else!" and collapsed into sobs, clutching her daughter close.

"Shit," Min said beneath her breath.

* * *

The cabbie's eyes kept returning to his lone passenger. The man was on the phone, his voice cycling between irritation and amusement. Something off about this fare. And that was saying a hellava lot. The dude's face glowed whitely in the back seat as he slouched on the worn upholstery. He had been surprised when he picked the man up at the bus station, and found his gaze returning to the back seat often, hastily averting his eyes when they met those of his passenger in the rear view. Curious, he listened in on some of the one sided conversation.

"All right. I get it. I get it. You have a new lady and need the other half now." He drummed long fingers on the worn upholstery, keeping an invisible beat. "I know that. What? I told you...I am between gigs, so my money is tied up at the moment." The man glanced into the driver's mirror and met the bright interested eyes of the cabbie. He pulled some well worn cardboard rectangles out of his coat pocket, never ceasing his conversation as he held them up one by one in weary resignation.

The cabbie's eyes widened as he read the large block letters on each of the five flashcards presented to him.

1- **I AM NOT A THIEF BENT ON ROBBING YOU**

 **2** \- **I AM NOT A TERRORIST** **WHOSE** **INTENT** **ION** **IS TO** **HARM ANYONE**

 **3- I AM A FAMOUS COMPOSER IN NEED OF PRIVACY**

4- **THANK YOU FOR YOUR UNDERSTANDING**

5- **WATCH WHERE YOU ARE GOING**

The cabbie's mouth had sprung open **,** before returning his eyes to the street. "Shit!" he cursed as he slammed on the brakes, just missing the bumper of the car stopped in front of him.

Thrown forward, the passenger curled his arm around the battered violin case in his lap as though shielding an infant, and braced a booted foot against the back of the driver's seat.

"Sorry 'bout that," the cabbie mumbled, seeing his tip evaporating. "You okay, man? That was a close one. It..."

"I'll live," Erik said dryly. He held up his phone and pointed to it for good measure. "If you don't mind..."

"Sure, sure. Flashcards, huh? Get asked nosy questions all the time, do ya? Cool mask, but couldn't a fake beard and wig do the job?"

"Too pedestrian."

"Ri _ght_. Say, fella...which one? Composer, I mean. I'm really into music."

"George Frideric Handel."

"Say, no kiddin'! I know some of your stuff. Eighties, right?"

"Yes," Erik agreed, but thought privately that the man would almost surely know the NBA's MVP for 1980 without even thinking about it. After all, why would anyone remember one of the greatest baroque composers in the world when Handel couldn't have done a jump shot to save his life? "A little hang time, maestro?" he muttered.

"What was that, Mr. Handel?"

"Nothing," and peered out the grimy cab window as the first fat drops of rain started to fall.

The cabbie flicked his wipers on as the rain came down harder, the world outside his car, smoke and silver as color melted away into the drear of a soggy late afternoon. Through the windshield, pavement shone wetly as though covered in a viscous slime. He chanced another glance at his passenger. "I get all kinds of fares in my cab, but I ain't never..."

Erik pointed to his phone again in annoyance.

"Yeah, right right. Well, we're there, Mr. Handel," he announced as he pulled over to the curb, wondering why in hell a famous composer would stay in a dump like this one.

"Have to go, Khan. No!" Erik despised repeating himself more than anything. "And no again. "You will get the rest when I have it to give. Or shall I rob a bank for you?" and winked at the cabbie, who was now giving him a suspicious look.

He stuffed his phone in a coat pocket and grabbed the scruffy violin case, before unfolding his lanky frame from the cab. He stepped out onto the wet pavement, becoming soaked before half a minute had gone by. He hadn't known there was so much water in this part of the world, and it was all suspended over his head. Erik tugged his collar up against the chill of the early spring rain, and eyed with distaste, the decrepit row of brownstones across the street.

To him they appeared like relics from a past whose heyday had long ago come and gone. They were left to usher in new eras and newer neighbors in their peeling paint and worn bricks. They were like antiquated old ladies wearing out of style black bombazine, and smelling heavily of the camphor crystals the garments were stored in. Prior glory always slowly and inevitably crumbled away.

He should know.

The building's better days were far behind it, and jingling the loose change in his pant's pocket, Erik considered the fact that his erstwhile friend had managed to rip him off. Digging into his shrinking funds, he held out a twenty and a ten to the driver.

The cabbie had opened his trunk and removed the battered olive drab duffel bag. Turning, he looked up and up at the man standing in front of him, making him feel as small as the little leprechauns on the box of cereal his kids scarfed down every morning. If music ever became the pits for the guy, he would damn well be smart to give basketball a shot.

"Keep the change."

The cabbie took the proffered money and his two dollar tip, not sorry at all that the long sip of water in front of him was getting a good soaking. He nodded at the row of tired brownstones. "Couldn't get you closer to the building- those toe jammers over there hog all the parking."

In spite of getting wetter, Erik had to ask. "What is a... toe jammer?"

"Aw, that's just some stupid game my kids play on the computer. It's 'bout little monsters. Watch yourself when you go out at night, Mr. Handel. The neighborhood ain't all that safe."

Erik watched as two men loitering on the street corner across from them, began to argue. Loudly. One man gave the other a hard shove backward. "You don't say."

He entered the building to the squeal of rusty hinges, the odor of stale cooking and old plumbing assailing him. He shook himself like a wet dog, running a hand through his dripping hair and took inventory of the first floor. It was as tired and seedy looking as the outside of the building, graffiti spread liberally over the drab walls, although the place appeared to be fairly clean. He read a message penned in what appeared to be orange lipstick, informing the reader that Rita was more than capable of providing a man (or woman) with a good time- for a price. He spied the manager's office to the left of the stairs and a door at the end of the hall proclaiming the laundry to be in that direction. First things first. He would investigate his apartment, then check in with the building's super. Wouldn't do to have the other tenants becoming alarmed at his presence before he even opened his mouth.

He took the steps two at a time until he found his apartment number, breathing out a sigh of relief. Almost there. He would take a hot shower first thing to warm up, closely followed by some of that brandy wrapped in a sock in his duffel. He slid the key home in the old fashioned lock and turned the knob. The door swung inward, and abruptly stopped.

"What the hell..." Mouth grim, he pushed at the door which refused to open all the way, hearing the rattle of a chain bolt and the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching the door. A body shoved hard against it, slamming it shut in his face, followed by the click of the lock.

Erik winced as what sounded like a wooden chair was dragged across the floor and shoved under the knob.

Fort damn Knox.

He stared at the door as a bloodshot blue eye appeared at the peep hole.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" the eye raking him up and down. "Whoa, wait just one damned minute! Why are you wearing that thing?" The blue eye widened as it regarded the tell tale signs of the mask.

A sharp eye always spotted it. He remained calm. "Why else? I need it."

"What for? Robbing people? You've come to the wrong place, buddy. Nothing here to steal, so move along unless you want trouble from the cops!"

"That is a tasteless utterance, miss." For a moment he considered getting out his flashcards. Next she would ask if he was a terrorist. "I assure you it hides a birth defect only. Nothing for you to concern yourself with."

"Yeah? !'ve never seen you before in my life! Why should I take your word?"

Erik bit the inside of his cheek, and turned on his five hundred mega watt smile of uneven teeth, wishing only to put her at ease. He accomplished the exact opposite. He was not well versed in the social niceties, and this was a woman with a normal suspicion of strange men. "Didn't Nadir tell you I was coming?"

"Nadir? That son of a bitch! He decided to take a powder after I spent days planning a move to Florida to be with him! Now he's with... Someone Else." She stopped for air. "Who the hell _are_ you?"

Obviously he hadn't, Erik thought glumly. That son of a bitch. He fished his wallet out of his back pocket and removed a photo, holding it up in front of the peep hole between two white and very long fingers.

Christine squinted at the image of her much younger ex wearing a sloppy grin, one arm around a nubile young thing, the other slung over a scarecrow. Apparently _this_ scarecrow. Her eyes rose from the picture to the expanse of silicone now regarding her uneasily. "How do I know you're actually this guy?" she said, eying him narrowly.

He stepped back, raising his arms out from his thin body. "Lady, why would I impersonate someone like me?"

She continued to stare at him, before finally nodding. "Good point. Who's the bimbo?"

Christine knew she had made a mistake when the eyes observing her flashed a warning. "That is no bimbo. _That_ is my sister," he replied quietly, now with a colder note to his voice.

Grudgingly, she backed off. "I'm...sorry. You've obviously caught me at a bad time. She must take after your mother."

"Actually, _I_ take after my mother. I have her ear lobes."

At any other time she would have laughed. The man was quick. "So what do you want?"

He waggled a finger at the door. "My apartment. I now hold the lease and a key mailed to me by my ex-friend who happens to be your um...significant ex-other. So...may I come in?" He stared at his soggy self and shrugged. "I am rather soaked, and I would like to discuss this somewhere other than this hallway, if you don't mind."

"Well, I do mind!" Christine made a noise that could only be classified as a rude snort. "Wish in one hand, buddy and shite in the other. See what you get first."

Crude. The woman was crude. He opened his mouth for a withering reply, and closed it when he heard another voice chiming in. A very young voice.

"Who is it, Mom? Is Nadir back?"

"Not that...that... No, he's not," Christine answered, forcefully calming down.

Good thing too. Wonder how his sweet young thing would like him missing a few choice bits? "Run along, Min and take your bath."

He heard a muttered expletive quickly cut off, and the bloodshot eye was zeroing in on him again. She sniffed loudly, clearly in need of a tissue. "I know this must be vastly annoying for you, ma'am, sick as you are, but if you would just give me a few more moments of your precious time, I would be forever in your debt." There! Not so very bad. He had kept the sarcasm to a minimum.

"I'm not sick. Unless heartsick counts as an illness. Look, Mr. Whateverthehellyournameis, there's obviously been a huge mistake. You trusted your good buddy when you shouldn't have. Hell, _I_ trusted your good buddy when I shouldn't have." She sniffed through a clogged nose, the blue eye blinking furiously as it sprung a leak. She dabbed the offending orb, before turning it back on him. "But I'm on the right side of the door, and you. are. not. End of story. Good night to you and have a lovely evening."

"You have a child?"

"That's none of your business," she seethed.

He knew it was not, and he would swallow his own tongue before mentioning that uprooting a mother with a young child from their home, would no doubt work in her favor. She was correct. It was none of his business.

Erik stared at the blank door, half of his mind wanting to kick it down. Well, he would if it was possible without breaking a toe. Or a foot. Besides, it was _his_ door and he didn't want it open to all and sundry when he did move in. He could have used his key if she hadn't barricaded the damned door with a chair. Not to mention, if he had succeeded in getting in, the cops would have arrived forthwith. No doubt about that. They might yet. The woman was stubborn. He cocked his head. And bitter. A bad combination.

He should know.

He fumbled out his phone, hoping the battery didn't die on him as he placed a call to Nadir your-ass-is-grass Khan. He muttered curses under his breath, one in particular aimed at Khan's reproductive organs. Something to do with a jar of honey and a thousand soldier ants let loose. Erik viciously punched in the number and held his breath.

It rang. And rang, his message going to voicemail. Khan would no doubt return his call.

Someday.

He spoke in a clear concise tone, his voice almost pleasant. "You have left me with a nearly impossible task, my friend. Removing an enraged female from my apartment. One with a little child. I shall hunt you down, Khan. Never fear. Perhaps I will accomplish it with your murderous ex-girlfriend in tow."

He dropped his now dead phone back in his pocket, squared narrow shoulders and knocked on the door.

"You still here?"

The woman spoke with weary resignation, and he felt a tiny surge of hope worm its way into his gloomy thoughts. She was caving. "I have nowhere else to go," he said simply.

"Look. Can't you find a cheap hotel? They're out there, you know."

"In this town?" he replied in irritated disbelief.

"All right. No hotel. How 'bout the Y.M.C.A?"

"Why would I want to? I _have_ an apartment! You are the squatter, and Erik can have you evicted from it," he said in a prickly manner that Christine could only consider arrogant. "Perhaps you should take your own advice and move to the Y. _W_.C.A!"

She ignored that. After all, _she_ wasn't the one in the hallway dripping wet and shaking like a nun at a biker convention. "Erik? He your lawyer?" this said suspiciously.

His scant patience was nearly gone. No wonder Khan dumped her. He held up a soggy piece of paper and waved it in front of the peep hole. "Is it or is it not Nadir Khan's writing? He wrote this, giving me the direction to this building plus the key to get _in._ Recognize his hand?"

Christine did, and a red haze momentarily blocked her vision. "Could have been forged. I don't know you, and I can't trust just anyone! Now if you don't mind, I have to get up early for work," she lied.

"So I will just park myself on this nice landing until you go to work, and then with _my_ key in hand I shall move into my apartment and keep _you_ out."

Shit. He had a point.

He ran a skeletal hand through his lank hair and bent to retrieve his things. "Better yet, I am going downstairs and talk to the super. I should have done that first and by-passed the melodrama." He sneezed miserably. "I think I'm coming down with pneumonia. Does that satisfy you?"

"Mr. um..."

"Erik."

"Lawyer Erik?"

"No," he returned, keeping hold of the itty bitty amount of restraint he had left to his name. _Sorry, Your Honor. She was standing behind the door when I knocked it down._ "That was your contribution. Not mine. Erik is _my_ name."

"Erik what?"

"Girard."

"Girard? You seem familiar to me for some reason."

"Well, you are not familiar to me," he said stiffly.

"Girard, Girard," she muttered.

He could almost picture the woman's head beginning to smoke as her muddled brain formed itself around an additional problem. "Could you perhaps continue that line of thought at another time? I am frankly tired of conversing with an eye."

"Okay, Mr. Girard. I can see that aside from giving my heart to an asshole, I might not have a place to call home tonight. We may have to discuss this further," she at last conceded.

Oh, happy day!

 _What have I been explaining to you ad nauseam, you ridiculous woman?_ Or did he mean ridiculous eye? He would have rubbed his bony hands together in satisfaction, but he wasn't home yet, and schooled his voice to be pleasant. "In that case, may I come in?" and again flashed his mega watt snaggle-toothed grin.

And did himself no favors.

Christine, seeing that disturbing smile, immediately thought of Hannibal Lecter, and eyed him with slight disgust. Black hair more or less parted in the center, skirted just past his bony chin, hanging wetly around a narrow face, and looking like the wings of a particularly scraggly crow. Said crow wore down at the heels motorcycle boots, black jeans, black shirt, black coat. _Definitely_ has a raging phobia for color. She grinned evilly, imagining the nightmares he would have picturing himself in something say...pale blue. They wouldn't be simple nightmares. Oh no. He would be in therapy for the rest of his life.

Her gaze kept climbing, to the skinny Adam's apple that bobbed nervously, the only outward sign of unease. The oddest thing about him aside from the mask, which almost... _almost_ passed for normal, were his eyes. Yellow. Far and away yellow. And not so mellow. She giggled, and heard a note of hysteria present.

They glowed.

She shook her head. Nah. Can't be. _You're just tired, Christine. Tired of feeling like the place where everyone dumps their junk._

Another peek at Mr. Erik seemsfamiliarsomehow Girard, and she was convinced that he had phosphorescent yellow eyes. No doubt about it- there's a sign post up ahead. You have entered- The Twilight Zone.

"Why didn't your good buddy ever mention you, huh?"

He spread his hands. "I wouldn't know," he said quietly.

"I have a gun and will not hesitate to use it if you pull something funny, but yeah, you may as well come in. I can't expect to keep you out forever. That bastard sublet our home; _his_ home, since it's his name on the lease. Which means I really don't have a friggin' leg to stand on."

"No. You certainly don't," he said somberly, privately gleeful.

If his socks hadn't been soaked, his boots being a little too worn; if his face hadn't been sprouting sores like weeds in an abandoned lot, well, he might have empathized with her. But it wasn't often he felt sympathy for others. He saved that emotion for himself.

"Well?" he finally responded. "Stand off over? Can we perhaps work something out?" _Like helping you pack?_

He waited another full minute, his lips tightening into a grimace. Christine thought it scarier than the creepy smile. Nevertheless, with a weighted sigh reaching fathoms deep, she slid the bolt off the door and flipped the lock.

The door slowly opened. "Get in here," she spat. "You have five minutes to state your case.

"And no funny business, mister," she warned. "Remember, I have a gun and I'm not afraid to use it."

 _Yes, yes. Hands up, Calamity Jane._ Erik raised both of his in appeasement. "You won't have to, lady. I just want what I paid for." He waggled his fingers. "Trust me."

"Then we might not get along. Last man who said those words, screwed me over and then some. Seems I have no choice though."

The door opened wider, and with a deep breath, he took a step towards it.


	2. The Game is Afoot

"Leave your stuff outside," she instructed him coldly.

"I can't do that. This is everything that I own," his grip tightening on the violin case.

"Then you don't come inside."

At the flare of emotion in his eyes, Christine eased off. Just a little. "The door's staying open, so you'll be able to keep an eye on your things," she said grudgingly. "Besides...I don't think anyone around this dump is all that desperate," her eyes dropping to his grungy duffel bag and the equally scruffy violin case, "for that."

Erik reluctantly set his things down and took a hesitant step across the threshold.

They stared at one another.

She hadn't realized how tall he was. Very intimidating this close, looming over her like a skinny bird of prey. And like a bird of prey, his eyes had a freaky directness that was disturbing in the extreme. _Blink, dammit._ It was beyond silly to say that they appeared hawkish, but that is what came to mind, the irides a shade of such a pale golden brown, that they stood out clearly against the black of his pupils.

Yep. They were yellow. The dude had yellow eyes.

Letting him in may have been the last godawful mistake she ever made. _Way to go, Christine. You even screw up your life with men you don't know._

He wasn't impressed with her at all. The eye that had peered so suspiciously at him through the peep hole, was matched by another equally bloodshot blue eye. Shoulder length dishwater blonde hair in messy disarray, framed a heart-shaped face bare of any make-up. Rumpled clothing covered a small slender frame with very little of the attributes which the male of the species was attracted to. To him, she appeared more like an over-grown child playing dress-up and not doing a very good job of it. An aggressive stance warred with a defeated look, paired with those puffy eyes and a red nose. No head cold then. Simply too many waterworks.

"Talk."

"May I sit down first?" his voice coolly polite.

"No." She stood there, arms folded across her chest, tapping one foot impatiently.

He stared at her in damp misery. "You, I believe, have an attitude problem. You are not a woman given to sympathy for anyone but yourself. And you are far too cynical for one so young." Ouch. He put out a placating hand, attempting to repair his harsh words. "I didn't...excuse my-"

"I'm old enough to know a problem when it's standing right in front of me!" her narrowed eyes daring him to say anything more about her age or lack of it.

He got the message. Loud and clear, but his pruning toes and stinging face were not helping him at the moment. "I meant no disrespect to you, ma'am, but we have a situation here, and your lack of tolerance is not allowing us to come to an expeditious resolution."

"My, but you are a wordy one, aren't you?"

"Then let me interpret that, if I may," his attitude that of a frustrated teacher trying to reach a thick headed student. "Your... _hostility,_ is keeping me from a hot shower and a much needed belt of brandy. Does that satisfy you?"

As Christine's cheeks flushed a dull red, she was nevertheless having none of it, already regretting letting him in. But she intended to bluff her way through. Marie Daae's little girl would go down fighting. She put hands on hips, her stance aggressive. "I know what you meant! I just didn't think you needed to say it with so much hot air! You have a hellava nerve barging in here and bashing my character! Attitude problem, huh?" waving an indignant finger at him. "Well, _you_ have an altitude problem," she declared assertively. "How often do you hit your head on the door lintel?"

"A time or two," he was forced to admit, shifting from one foot to the other.

Christine snorted disparagingly as she looked him up and down. "I'd say more than a time or two, fella."

He mimicked her, folding his arms across his chest, and stared down his fake nose at her. "What does this have to do with our present circumstances?"

"Not one damn thing! I was hoping you would have disappeared by now; this being only a nasty dream as I napped by the pool in sunny Florida. Oh, look! Here comes that sexy cabana boy bringing me a pina colada with one of those cute little umbrellas in it! But, _nooo-_ "

You don't mince words, do you, lady?" his temper back up and running, his tired and soggy state having much to do with it. That, and the ratty little she-devil in front of him. Slightly desperate, he searched for his Happy Place. "You remain decidedly hostile, so why invite me in then?"

"I was hoping you'd see reason and hand over that key. I-"

"Mom? Even if we're not... Sorry." Min stopped and glanced shyly at the man now taking up space in their small kitchen, her eyes widening when he turned and faced her.

"Go to your room, Min. Now."

The girl knew that tone of voice, the tone that said, ' _you are arriving at the location of my last nerve. Do you wish to proceed?'_ She did not. Not with the weepy, angry, despairing mood her mother had been in since getting home this afternoon. Regardless, she managed a smile for the man who looked like he could use one.

"Hi."

His strange eyes settled on her and warmed a bit at this first show of welcome, however small, since finding himself on the outs with the acrimonious and bitter woman now glaring at him.

"Hello," he replied to the little girl who looked no more than six or seven. A pair of tortoiseshell glasses were perched on her small delicate face, one of the blue eyes closely observing him, tracking slightly outward. She had fine, light brown hair pulled into a pony tail, and wore a graphic tee of a tiny ballerina in pink, sitting on a flower bedecked swing. It proclaimed the wearer to be a Tutu Girl.

Sweet and innocuous.

Something her mother was not.

He turned back to the woman and his traitorous eyes were suddenly playing mind games with him. It was hardly the first time. He shook his head slightly to dislodge the image of her in a tee shirt proclaiming her to be a ' _ **pistol packin' mama'**_ , and pictured above the block letters, a militant woman with a very large rifle, slung with multiple bandoleers and a knife between her teeth.

He blinked several times, the vision thankfully fading, his eyes instead settling on her linen trousers and limp white blouse. Obviously, she wasn't into making fashion statements. He glanced surreptitiously around, looking for the professed gun, relieved to see no such thing. Perhaps she was just bluffing him.

Christine watched the man curiously. "Hey, you all right there? You look a little spooked."

"I'm perfectly fine." _Or will be once I figure out where you have stashed your firepower._

Not taking her eyes off of him, she spoke curtly to her daughter, "Araminta. To your room. Now."

One last look behind her and Min decided to scoot as her mother suggested.

Erik got back to the matter at hand. "This can only go one way, ma'am. The apartment has been sublet. To me."

She gestured to his face. "What's goin' on there?"

He blew out an exasperated sigh. "Not that it's any of your business, but since I am trying to sell you," he swept an oddly graceful hand down his thin body," on my suitability to live in... _my_ apartment, I will say it _again_." Erik paused and looked down at his worn boots, a shiver causing him to hunch his shoulders. He thought longingly of his sock wrapped brandy. "I don't suppose since you have not extended me the courtesy of a seat, that you would have a cup of hot coffee to offer?"

"No," she said again, waiting. Her foot continued to tap against the dingy floor. Tap, tap, tap.

Erik shut out that annoying cadence, his ears forever attuned to rhythm however primitive, and pursed his lips in disappointment as another long shudder ran up his back. He would remain calm and reasonable, reaching his goal of ejecting the cold eyed shrew that much quicker. "It is a birth defect that I hide. I spare you and others the need to look at it."

"Show me."

"That I will not do," he replied unequivocally. "You will have to accept my words as the truth."

"Why should I?"

"You have no choice," he pointed out quietly.

"This has been our home for two years!" she cried in frustration. "All of our things are here. My daughter goes to school in this neighborhood. She enjoys it. She's made friends!"

"And you think this a safe neighborhood for your little child?"

She moved a bit closer, as though to poke him in the chest just to get her point across.

Not a prudent move.

He had been poked and prodded enough for two lifetimes.

The woman again saw something unnerving in his eyes, for she took a small step backward. "I have been screwed over more than enough for one day, and barring the cops coming and removing us _bodily,_ I'm. not. budging."

"What's your name?"

He had caught her unawares, as she prepared to share more of her mind with him. The angry part. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"I would like a name to go with the face when I call the local police to escort you out of here."

Christine actually growled at that, until she saw his horrible smile lurking on that otherwise weirdly blank face.

Erik put up hands as though to stop her from attacking him, and said soothingly, "Only a little stab at humor to lighten the mood."

"Then you need to work on that, buddy, because I don't find it funny at all."

"Yes," he replied evenly, "I should. I have no intention of calling the police, but I would like to know the name of the lady who had Nadir Khan's heart for a short while."

The fight went out of her so suddenly, he was left with the impression of a wind up doll whose spring had sprung. She collapsed into a chair and looked up at him, before nodding to the one across from her.

"Sit."

He sat.

"Christine de Chagny. The biggest chump in the world for falling for a great smile and oodles of charm," she mumbled, still warily keeping her eyes on him.

"That would be Nadir Khan, all right," he said mildly, folding himself into the rickety chair. "He of the big white grin and greasy charm." It felt good to be sitting down instead of looming over a slip of a woman with a large chip on her shoulder. "Look," he began, gauging her for a reaction to what he was about to say. First, he had to eliminate other possibilities before committing himself to one very big-assed headache. "Is there anywhere else you could go? A relative or a friend perhaps?"

She had already begun shaking her head, neatly removing that hopeful possibility. "I have a good friend, but she's in the process of moving into an even smaller loft apartment. She could put us up for a while, I guess, but that's all. Min's uncle is a great guy and kinda dotes on his niece, but he lives in London and we're lucky if we see him once a year. Besides, this is _my_ messy life- I'd rather keep Phil out of it. My parents are dead, and I was an only child." Christine propped her chin in hand, wearily contemplating the very strange man across from her. "That cover just about everyone for you?"

"Well, what about your daughter's father? Where is he?" and was nonplussed to hear her laugh harshly.

"We are divorced, Mr. Girard. Raoul would rather chase down the habitat of the Hairy-Nosed Wombat or the Gooty Tarantula, rather than tuck his only daughter into bed at night. I would imagine that is where he is now. Somewhere on the other side of the world watching the blue tit molt."

"The blue... _what?_ "

She sighed with dreary resignation. "He's a zoologist and is rarely at home. Looking back, I suppose he wasn't even with us when he _was_ with us. Always had his nose in a book. I guess if we'd been an endangered species instead of just ordinary Homo saps, he would have shown some interest."

"Homo sapiens," he corrected automatically.

She stared at him crossly. "I know how to pronounce it! It just happens to be how I feel at the moment. A big dumb sap." She sniffed. "As if a zoologist would be interested in human birds and bees. Ha!"

"He must have been interested at least once," Erik pointed out.

"Yeah, before he discovered the www," she sneered.

"The internet?"

Christine shook her head irritably. "Wonderful world of wombats."

He forced the snicker back out of sight and eyed her with no small amount of surprise. "You went from a scientist to a down and out actor?"

"Pathetic, I know, but I always had a soft spot for handsome m-" she dropped her eyes from his, adding embarrassment to the seat of her emotional roller coaster today. "Hey, this isn't getting us anywhere! I suppose you have no other options for a place to crash, huh?"

"Don't you receive money from your former husband for the care and feeding of your child?"

"When he remembers to send it, I do. I provide for my daughter, Mr. Girard, and she lacks for nothing. She has an account set up in her name from the divorce settlement, which takes care of all of her needs until she becomes an adult. If I have to, I could withdraw some of those funds for a roof over our heads, but I'd rather not until it becomes inevitable, or my little girl will have diddly squat for college. Now maybe you'll answer _my_ question. Nowhere else to go?"

He shook his head, studying her tired features with such intensity, that her slight thaw toward him iced up immediately.

"What are you staring at?"

"My new roommate?" he replied rather timidly for such a menacing figure.

"Huh?"

To him, she had the vapid appearance of an unruly mental patient given haloperidol; the only thing missing at the moment, was the drool sliding from lip to chin. And the shakes. Must not forget _those._ Inwardly, he sniffed. She might be drawn to handsome men, but what in blue blazes did they see in her?

Erik's gaze was one of abject pity for the dull minded woman, and proceeded to list the pros to sharing the apartment. He ticked them off on unnaturally long digits, and Christine followed their movements nearly mesmerized. "You have nowhere to go, but you have a key. _I_ have nowhere to go, and also have a key. We would be hard pressed keeping one another out. Whether you believe me or not, I really don't care to have you evicted. I know treachery and all of its pitfalls from experience, so I am not entirely unmoved by your circumstances. You have a daughter and a job to go to in the morning," he glanced briefly at his watch, "not so very long from now, either. I have a new job _I_ am starting in the morning. This apartment has two bedrooms and ample space for the addition of a quiet gentleman who would be more than willing to split the rent.

"And pay for his own food," he added as an inducement.

"But I don't _know_ you! How can you possibly suggest that I allow you to sleep under my roof with my young daughter just across the hall? That...that's absurd!" she sputtered.

"How well did you know Nadir Khan?" and he could see that his question had hit the mark. "Besides... I don't know you either! You could well be a woman of Lizzy Borden's ilk! Ready to murder a poor defenseless man in his bed," to which Christine let out a loud snort. "But to clarify your last point...you will be sleeping under _my_ roof."

He rose to his feet, and Christine got to hers as well, watching him closely. "W-Where are you going?"

Erik walked to just outside the door where his duffel and violin case were slumped against the wall. "My phone is dead and I need to make a call."

She came up behind him. "Thought of someplace to stay?" her relief making her light-headed.

"No, I am going downstairs and speak with the manager. If I get no satisfaction, I will bring the police in to have you and your daughter evicted."

"Wait a minute! I thought you were only kidding about the cops!"

"I seem to have been wrong about that," he answered with an air of finality, bending to retrieve his things, "so expect to... "

"I accept."

Christine watched as he turned to her, his damned bony Adam's apple convulsing as he processed this. She was forced to admire his quick recovery, as he straightened up and met her eyes.

She shrugged, giving him a very weak smile. "I may be stubborn, but I'm not stupid." *

"Should we go into the particulars now?" he said with a mixture of surprise and relief.

"You weren't really expecting that, were you?"

"No," he replied honestly.

"Tomorrow is soon enough to go over details," as she sped past him to her daughter's bedroom. "Min! Get your things. You're moving in with Mom tonight."

* * *

The next forty-five minutes were a mad rush to rearrange the rooms. The little girl accepted the new status quo like one long inured to changes in her young life. Which, Erik reflected, was not far from the truth. Stability didn't seem big on her mother's to-do list.

He mostly stayed out of their way as they passed each other in the hall, carrying her possessions to their new resting place. At one point, the girl became over zealous as she precariously balanced a pile of books stuck beneath her small chin, and a few hit the floor.

Min went to her knees to scoop up her books, when a skeletal hand got there before her, and carefully added them back to the top of the pile. She looked up gratefully, her eyes dilating slightly at his appearance this close as he hunkered down beside her. She got to her feet. "Thanks, mister."

"You are welcome, Miss de Chagny," and felt a tiny curl of gratitude that she didn't seem to fear him.

She giggled at the formality. "It's Min! That's what everyone calls me."

"Your name is Araminta, is it not?"

"Uh huh. I'm named for my great granma Daae."

"May I call you Araminta then?"

"Why?"

"Just to be different."

"Min shrugged. "I guess so." She wrinkled her brow. "But what do I call you?"

Christine rushing by with a load of sheets, spoke as she shoved them into a hamper. "His name is Mr. Girard. He is your elder and that's how you address him."

"We will be sharing an apartment though. I think we can dispense with the formalities, don't you?" Erik stated.

"Suit yourself," Christine muttered, as she stuck her head in the linen closet and started grabbing fresh bedding off of the shelves.

"My name is Erik, and I am pleased to meet you, Araminta."

"Likewise," she said solemnly, as she balanced her load of books, and slowly duck walked into her mother's bedroom.

Erik followed Christine into his room and watched for a moment as she set neatly folded sheets and blankets on the small bed in the left back corner of the room. Next to it was an ancient wooden desk, sitting beneath the room's only window. A computer screen took up half the desk's surface, the rest of it occupied by a little brown creature running busily and going absolutely nowhere on a plastic wheel in a bright red cage.

He watched it glumly. _I know exactly how you feel, fella._

Christine caught him looking at the cage. "That's Scooby Doo, Min's gerbil. We'll have him outta here by tomorrow. We have to make some room first. Meantime, here's sheets and blankets for your bed. Oh, and there's fresh towels in the hallway closet. Help yourself."

He eyed the narrow twin bed with misgiving. He might manage to get _half_ of his body on it- the rest would be hanging out in space.

He sighed, considering it the lesser of two evils at the moment; he needed to remove the silicone from his face and take a hot shower.

"I can manage now, Mrs. de Chagny. Go help your daughter."

"Ugh. You can drop the title. You may as well call me Christine. We _are_ one big happy family," she said with one big portion of bitterness.

Carefully ignoring the sarcasm, he said evenly, "And I am Erik. We are finally getting somewhere. We are nearly friends," he added hurriedly, moving in her direction and herding her unobtrusively toward the door. "Goodnight... Christine."

She paused and studied him. Out with the old- in with the new. Boy, and how. "We need to establish some ground rules before we go any further."

"And we will, we will." He searched for patience, the skin on his face clamoring loudly for attention. "However, at the moment I would like to unpack. It has been a long day."

Christine didn't budge as she rattled off the restrictions she was imposing on her new roommate. "I don't do your laundry. You _will_ clean up after yourself. We take turns using the kitchen. I have a growing daughter to care for, therefore I get first crack at meal prep. Oh yeah...no dirty dishes are to be left piled in the sink, and this is important- no booze lying about where my daughter can see it," she stipulated crisply. "No late night friends, especially those of the feminine persuasion. One last thing, and this is crucial. Do _not_ leave the toilet seat up. We outnumber you and demand some male courtesy. Clear?"

"Perfectly," he replied mildly, hands on narrow hips, slightly off-kilter that she actually considered him the sort to invite women in. Or that they would be interested enough to come. "Now it is your turn to listen," his mouth becoming grimmer as he stood there. "My room is off limits to you and your daughter. I will respect your privacy if you respect mine, and for your information, I do not pollute my body with an excessive amount of cheap alcohol on a regular basis. I never over-indulge. I already have more than enough strikes against me to add another and become a blithering idiot! Also, I do not appreciate any loud squawking from that idiot box in your living room, so please keep the volume down _low_."

He cocked his head as he considered her. "Also I would appreciate it if both of you ladies keep any and all of your unmentionables out of my sight. No panties drying on a line strung in the bathroom." *

"Now you wait just one damned minute! What we do in our-"

"Uh, uh, uh," shaking a thin finger at her. "It is no longer just the two of you. We must share this abode, and may I add...from the innate goodness of my heart, that I _allow_ you to do so...so you must be aware of my sensibilities and accord me some courtesy as the only male in our little household."

"You're turning my own words back on me!" she accused him.

"Am I?" he asked innocently, and pretended to consider it. "Yes, I suppose I am."

"Nadir never had so many restrictions," she grumbled, knowing she was losing this particular argument.

Erik made a point of glancing around the room. "Ah, but Khan is no longer in the picture, is he?" He spread his hands in a gesture of appeasement. "Perhaps you may be pleasantly surprised at how things work out for the better."

She moved to the door, hesitating as she looked back at him with weary eyes. "Nothing has ever worked out in my life. I just try to stay a little bit ahead of the next shit storm. Just remember, _Erik,_ that my door will be locked, I have a gun-"

"Yes, yes. I know. You have a gun and know how to use it. We have established that already. Maybe _I_ am the one to beware. You are a very aggressive woman."

She smiled a wintry smile. "Exactly."

"Goodnight."

She looked him up and down with distaste. "I was working on goodbye." *

He locked the door after her and sat down on the edge of the bed, slowly peeling the mask from his face, wincing as air hit the abraded skin. "What the hell have I gone and done now?"

* * *

Bleary eyed, Christine sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes.

Music.

She heard friggin' violin music at...she leaned over and squinted at the clock radio. Twelve damned thirty in the morning. She turned around and regarded her daughter, peacefully asleep beside her, curled up in a tiny ball and lost to the world.

Well, she wasn't going to let that amazingly irritating man come into her home and do whatever he pleased! She had a growing child who needed her sleep to stay healthy. Min seemed to agree with her as she began to lightly snore. What Mr. Erik Girard needed was a set down, and she was the gal to give it to him.

She slid out of bed searching in the dark for her robe. Belting it tightly around her slender waist, she felt her way to the door and unlocked it.

* * *

His bow glided across the strings, the melody soothing and restful, just the thing for getting in the mood to sleep. This Mozart piece was a beautiful sigh, an exhalation of relief...a quiet, soothing interlude.

He definitely needed one of those.

A firm rapping on his door had him guessing correctly that the resident shrew had a protest to lodge.

An ax to grind.

Pick your cliché.

"We have a guest, Mr. Doo," he remarked with calm resignation to the gerbil, who remained curled up asleep in his cube. "Yes, you have the liberty to ignore her, but I do not."

He reached over and quickly donned the white cotton mask sitting on the nightstand, before unfolding his legs and getting up. Erik reverently placed his violin on the tiny bed and glanced down at his navy sleep pants, making sure everything was tucked away as it should be; it had been years since he last shared living quarters with the tenderer sex.

He snorted. The tenderer sex- and Christine.

At the last moment he threw on the damp shirt he had only recently removed, and opened the door to find a glowering face staring at him, surrounded by what looked like a large mouse nest. Oh. It was her hair. "It's rather late, Christine. I would invite you in, but I have a reputation to maintain," he said evenly, quickly smothering his amusement as she stiffened in indignation.

He wondered what he had done now.

Erik thought back to his shower. Wet towel neatly folded? _Check._

Dirty clothes removed from bathroom? _Check._

Toilet seat down? _God, yes._

He faced her with a clean conscience, a tiny smile quickly suppressed.

She watched him closely for any sign of mockery- and saw none. "Your reputation is definitely safe with me. I merely wanted to lodge my first complaint."

"Can't this wait until morning?"

"It _is_ morning, and my daughter isn't getting her usual sleep," telling the lie as though she really believed it. Min was as unmoving as a wet sack of cement. Except for the snore.

She peeked round him into the room, noting a fat, dogeared paperback of the collected works of Shakespeare. _They all fit in a paperback?_ It was on the small nightstand with the wobbly leg, and the violin which had awakened her, now lay innocently on his bed. She stared briefly at the culprit before zeroing in on the white mask.

This was too weird. "I won't take long." She didn't allow her gaze to linger below his neck, but it was enough to know that he wore another color besides black. The wrinkled shirt from earlier that evening was now thrown over a washed out gray tee; squinting, she made out the faded lettering, _**Violinists**_ _ **do it in the orchestra pit.**_

Christine rolled her eyes at that, and gestured to the instrument on the bed. "My daughter needs her rest."

"Yes. You have already been kind enough to point that out." Bracing an arm on the door jamb, he gazed regally down at her.

"Min has to go to school, and I have to start looking for a job. Who wants to hire a singer if she falls asleep in the middle of her audition?"

Two things got Erik's attention real fast. "You sing? Opera? Modern? Or...or jazz? I unwind sometimes with jazz," his voice leaving boredom behind and latching onto eagerness. What is your range? I thought you said..."

"Whoa, whoa... _whoa,"_ Christine protested. "You're making me almost dizzy from this about face. No pun intended."

"None taken," he replied, studying her in a new light. Soprano. _Maybe._ Mezzo? No, not so strong. Lyric? Perhaps, mentally rubbing bony hands together.

She didn't care at all for his calculating scrutiny. Too much like Ray the time he got that book called Marvelous Creatures and Where They Hide. He had disappeared for three months searching for the Spiny Lumpsucker. "Why the sudden interest in what I do? Yeah, I sing. If that's what you want to call it. Piano bars mostly; a few of the better nightclubs... occasionally. Why? What's the big deal?"

"Well, my new employment tomorrow...I mean today, is keyboard and frontman with the band at the LipSync Club." He stared at her as though he had found a forever friend. "Imagine finding two musicians sharing an apartment. It must be fate, Christine."

"Yeah, fate," she said unimpressed. "I wish fate would just leave me the hell alone. Find someone else to play with."

His enthusiasm dimmed to a marked degree. No doubt if he had been endowed with a handsome face and toned body with more muscles than brain cells, she would be dancing to a different tune. He cocked his head at her. "You explained to me that you needed to be up for work today. Not searching for it."

"Yeah, well...I lied," she responded, having the temerity to smirk at him. "I didn't want you knowing everything about me. I did have a job up until three weeks ago, but the bar folded, and Nadir got the acting job in Miami, so..."

"So you were looking forward to a change of scenery until Khan made the scene change for Act II and decided to go with the understudy."

Christine regarded him with a marginal interest, before replying. "Yeah, you could say that. You know Erik, you're a pretty astute guy for having an asshole for a friend."

" _Ex-_ friend. And may I remind you that he was _your_ boyfriend? Maybe we are birds of a feather, Christine."

"Yeah, we could start the Twenty Watt Club, or better yet, The Dim Bulbs." She allowed the ghost of a smile to linger before becoming all business again. "So, will you cease and desist the playing until we are awake and able to defend ourselves with earplugs?"

He began to shut the door, his view becoming less and less of the irate woman standing in the hall. "Yes, I will. Just as soon as _I_ am able to sleep. Good night again."

The door was shut and locked before she could move. She raised her hand to knock, when the beautiful music began again. Mozart in A major. Soothing. Stunning. Absolutely stunning. For some strange reason, instead of feeling better, her eyes welled with tears. Was she getting so cynical and bitter, that telling him how beautifully he played was too large of a reach for her?

She shuffled back to bed and slipped in beside her daughter. She preferred to hang on to her anger a little while longer. She turned and viciously punched her pillow, accidentally elbowing Min in the side.

"Ow! Wha _at_?" she croaked, her head poking out of the comforter like a turtle coming out of its shell.

Christine huffed, feeling justified now that the little girl was awake. "Did the noise wake you, honey?"

Min yawned hugely. "No, _you_ did," * and slid easily back into sleep.

Christine nearly choked on a despondent sigh. She turned over and found herself listening to the violin. He was working on the coda. Beautifully done, and remarkably well, for a piece played without a score. Her respect for him went up a notch. A _teeny_ notch. She was turning over a new leaf. Which did not include men. In any way, shape or form. Her eyelids were growing heavy. After a day like today, that was a freakin' miracle.

"Well, Scarlett. Tomorrow is another day," she whispered.

And the music played on.


	3. Eaten Out of House and Home

He stood beside his keyboard, a Kurzweil Forte 7, which for a gig off the main drag, wasn't too shabby. They had run through a few numbers they would be doing just to get the crowd worked up. The club's band, Mood Savvy, was made up of four instruments; Reggie Accosta on electric guitar, Sawyer Arons, drummer, Ramos Fierro, bass guitarist, and himself. They were all similar to other bands he had belonged to at one time or another- some better, some worse. Their attitudes toward _him_ were the same.

Some better, some worse.

There were three singers in the band besides himself; they would do the actual singing for the contestants doing the lip-syncing. He had been introduced to three of them; a narcissistic baritone called Griffin Rhodes, and a young black woman with spiky purple hair, and skull and lily tat sleeves, who went by the name of Kendrick Lloyd. The last member of their group hadn't arrived yet- the all important soprano. According to Arons, she was not known for her promptness.

"Hell, she was fuckin' late for her job interview."

Erik surveyed the powerfully built black man with blonde dreads. "Then why is she still working here?"

Sawyer shrugged. "Easy on the eyes, man," his deep voice thick with innuendo.

"Any talent?"

"Aw, hey, she's not singing at the Met, but the peeps seem to dig her. Abba does too, and he likes what he sees. Did he explain the ropes?"

"This is a club for patrons who want their five minutes of fame by mouthing the words to their favorite tune. Said tune is taken from a list of twenty, chosen by a weekly survey done online," Erik stated, parroting Mark Abba's own words. "Ten contestants are chosen, the band performs each of their selections live in front of the club's patrons. At the same time, the song is digitally recorded for the actual performance. The band takes ten, the contestant has the stage all to him _or_ herself, mimes the hell out of the song, makes a total ass out of him _or_ herself, and everyone is happy, happy, happy."

Sawyer eyed the other man with admiration and grinned, all white teeth in a dark face. "Got it in one, brother. You get a cookie. How the hell you do that?"

Erik tapped the side of his head. "An excellent memory helps."

"Fuck me. You even sounded like Abba."

Erik shrugged."I've always had a certain... flair for voice impressions."

"No shit. Think you could do me?"

"Care to rephrase that, Arons?"

"Haw, Girard. I meant phone alibi. Might come in handy, dig it?"

When he had been introduced to the other band members, Erik had received the same reaction as he always did. Surprise, closely followed by wary curiosity. He was the new strange kid on the block, the three other band members having played together for a couple of years. When their former keyboardist decided to do crack and Captain Morgan, he found himself attempting to prove he was the one and only Spiderman, and climbed out of his tenth floor window to use his Spidey hands and Spidey feet to crawl down the side of the building to street level. Luckily for him, he was spotted from the ground, and firemen brought him down. The band had needed a replacement.

Enter Erik.

His looks being a bit different even for the ever eclectic rock musician, he was about as used to it as he would ever get. But slowly the band had melted to the obvious mastery of his craft, especially when he had stepped in for the delinquent soprano and done a very creditable job with her melody line. He was good at what he did and they knew it.

"You ain't plannin' on leaving this gig, are you, Girard? Heard they were a little pissed when you up and left the last one. They were starting to be taken seriously when you blew town. At least that's the word goin' round."

Erik leaned a hip against the keyboard and smiled in amusement. "I'm not planning on leaving anytime soon, but I'll tell you what, Arons. You will be the first to know when I do."

"Fair enough, my man. Fair enough." He turned when he heard a light trill of laughter outside the rehearsal room door. "Here's the la _d_ _ayy_ of the hour now! Carla! Come here for a little meet and greet."

Erik heard that laugh, the name, and turned his head in a slow dreamy manner, the sinews in his neck creaking in protest. Why in seven flaming hells, was _she_ here of all places?

Carla Giudicelli breezed into the room, her manner haughty as she surveyed the band members. Her green eyes roved around the room, briefly stopping on a gaunt figure and moving on before coming back in shocked disbelief. He was more than gratified to see the panic on her beautiful and expertly made up face.

"Erik," she cried weakly, when her tongue finally started working. "I don't believe it!"

* * *

Well into the following week, after what she had dubbed ED (Erik Descends), Christine spent the morning jogging from place to place looking for a venue that needed a singer. She had circled adds in the paper, and gone to the most promising places first, before trying the more questionable dumps, but so far the prospects were slim to none. One seedy piano bar on Liberty Avenue wasn't even going to pay her; she would be required to work for tips only. That could be a scenario where it was either feast or famine, depending on how drunk the patrons were on any given night, and no steadier than if she panhandled on the street. They insisted on taking her name and number, and that was about it. According to one shining establishment with the quirky name of Toad in the Hole, which smelled of stale cigarettes and watered down beer, she had the form for some lap dancing or even a little horizontal entertainment, but Christine wasn't interested in earning a living on her back.

Or whatever likely position.

By noontime her feet were sore along with her mood, and she ended up at Louise's new apartment for a cup of coffee and a sympathetic ear.

Her friend was just crawling out of bed, her eyes barely open as she shuffled around the tiny kitchen trying to wake up. "So tell me again why you're here this early? Out of milk? Sugar? What?" She poured them each a cup of coffee and dropped into a chair, yawning.

"Open your eyes and look out the window, you sloth! It's nearly time to go to bed!"

Louise blew on her coffee and fished a stray lock of brown hair out of her cup. "Late night, pumpkin. A bunch of us went out after the show. You know that baritone I was interested in? Turns out he really is straight. In fact I-" she turned and looked up the loft stairs as a stumbling figure tripped down them.

Bleary eyed, his jaws dark with stubble, he regarded the two women and smiled lazily. "Go ahead. Talk about me as though I'm not even here." He paused to button up his shirt and tuck it into his pants. "Mention my sexual prowess while you're at it, Sorelli," and he winked at Christine, his smile easy and unaffected. "And you are?"

"Not interested," Christine replied, but on a better day she would have been. Had to be six foot or better, brown hair kept short and neat, pale blue-green eyes alight with humor, and the clincher- a Brit accent.

"Pity." He started searching for his shoes and spoke over one broad shoulder. "I would love to stay and chat a while, but I have an appointment at," he squinted in surprise at his watch, "a half an hour ago."

They watched him as he collected his things from around the postage stamp-sized living room, navigating around the boxes of household items as yet to be unpacked. "We really must do this again, Louise," giving them each one more charming smile before darting out the door.

"He followed me home to help unpack all this stuff," Sorelli explained after another yawn.

Christine surveyed the unopened boxes jostling for space on the beige carpet of the living room floor. "Didn't get very far, did he?"

"Depends on what you're talking about."

"Was he?" Christine asked.

"Was he what?" Louise muttered still staring at the door.

"Any good?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"How wasted were you, Lou?"

"Remember that cast party we attended after opening night of Fantasticks?"

Christine snorted. "The all-nighter where three of us ended up in the park fountain?"

"Yeah, that one."

"Okay, but after seeing whatshisname-"

"Gerry Sutler."

"Well, just going on looks alone, I think you had a good time. Was he uh... _adequate?_ "

Sorelli held up her coffee cup and saluted her friend, hazel eyes gleaming. "I think you might be right. I feel very calm and relaxed."

"Taking a sedative has the same effect," Christine said dryly.

"But not nearly as much fun." She got up and headed for the toaster and dropped two slices of bread into it.

"Well? Come on...answer the question already!"

"What do you mean? Size?" Louise cackled. "I remember when I first saw one of those things. Strange looking, ain't they?"

"So are you on your maintenance night. Especially that green glop you stick in your hair. And I wasn't referring to the man's bits. I only wondered if he was good in the sack?"

"I thought we already established that, Daae. Besides, that _glop,_ as you call it, makes my hair lustrous." She flipped a lock of the other woman's hair. "You should try it."

"It's de Chagny, you cretin."

"Whatever. So tell me again why you're here. The kid all right?"

Christine managed to nod, her shoulders slumped as she pushed her cup away and folded her arms. "Nadir left me, we're not going to Miami, I have a new roommate you would not believe, and I'm looking for work to keep the wolf from the door."

Louise paused in buttering her toast and twirled a finger. "Go back to Nadir left me."

Christine put her head in her hands, her voice muffled and teary. "He left me for someone else. Someone prettier...and...and younger."

"Well, who can blame him, Chris? You're so far over the hill you're out of shouting distance."

"Yeah, twenty-seven is decrepit," she agreed morosely.

"Will you _listen_ to yourself? You're pathetic, Christine. Pa-thet-ic. Since when do you fold because a man's treated you like shit?"

Christine gazed bleary eyed at her best friend. "Since now?" she said timidly.

"Wrong answer. Grow a backbone, girl."

"Well, thank you very much for the shoulder to cry on! You're compassion is amazing, Lou." She took a hasty sip of her coffee and made a face. "You skimping on the grounds again to save money?"

"Nope. Your taste buds are off. Comes with a broken heart. But hey...you know I feel bad. What can I do? Just tell me, and it's a done deal."

She continued to glower at Sorelli. "Grow a backbone, huh? Like you did when my ex-brother-in-law ran back to London without bothering to say goodbye? Yeah, you were very cool that time, Louise. Very cool. You wouldn't get out of bed for days except to use the john and eat a box or three of Captain Crunch."

Louise sniffed disparagingly. "I was between shows as you well know, and needed a good rest."

"Uh huh. Righhht. Can we get back to _my_ immediate problem? I... I think Nadir planned to ditch me all along. Then this...this very tall, very strange man shows up claiming to be his friend and the new occupant of my apartment."

"Why, that son of a bitch! I told you he was bad news, Christine, but _nooo_ , you wouldn't listen to me."

"Oh, please! If I remember correctly you said to send him over when I was through with him!"

"Yeah, okay, but I still remember telling you Nadir wasn't good enough for you." She handed Christine a piece of toast and sat down again. "You need any money? I can lend you a little if you do."

"I have some put away. A very _little_ put away. Mostly for groceries and half the rent," she replied glumly. "Unless you have a spare thousand lying around somewhere, I have to find work."

"So tell me about your new roomie. Is he cute? Younger? Older?"

"Hard to tell, but I'd say he's in his thirties...no older than forty, I guess."

"Ooh, he has a baby face. I lerve those," Louise said, licking butter off of one finger.

Christine frowned. "Baby face? I don't think so."

"Well, does he or doesn't he?"

"He wears a mask."

"Huh? Say again?"

"You know...a Zorro type or... or bank robber... um, V for Vendetta kind of thing." She cut her eyes up at the ceiling. "Um...let's see. Batman, The Lone Ranger-"

"Okay, okay. Stop, stop." Sorelli dropped the rest of her toast on the table and sat up. "I can't believe you let him in the door! Are you fuckin' crazy, Christine?"

"Probably," she sighed. "He's legit, though. He's a friend of Nadir's... er, _former_ friend, and has a letter from him, plus the other apartment key." She ran a hand through her hair. "I've seen both, so quit yelling at me. I came here for coffee and sympathy, and I'm not gettin' any, so I may as well go home."

"You get sympathy with tea, not coffee. Any dummy knows that."

"Oh, shut up."

"Not until I find out why he wears a mask," Louise said stubbornly. "Is it some kind of attention grabber maybe?"

"Why would anyone want that kind of attention? Remember Norman Leonard and that red sweater vest he wore all the time? He might as well've painted a bull's eye on the back of it. Don't you remember fifth grade when Jake Carter crawled under Norman's desk, tied his shoes together and he ended up falling on his ass?" Christine folded her arms across her chest. " _That_ kind."

"Come on, Chris! That's hardly the same as wearing a Halloween mask, when Halloween's nowhere in sight! Besides, Norman Leonard, if I recall rightly, was the class know-it-all. He made the rest of us look like idiots."

"That's because compared to him, we were, Lou. He was Mrs. Russo's pet. She looked at us just sitting there like stumps and nearly burst into tears every time he raised his hand and got the right answer! Which was always."

"Wonder whatever happened to him?"

"Ever hear of AIG?"

"You mean that multi-billion dollar investment company that's always in the news?"

"Yep. Affinity Investment Group. Norman the _Nerd's_ investment group. He's rich, Louise. As in filthy." Christine looked sideways at her friend and chuckled evilly. "Um, didn't Norm have a crush on you once?"

"Yeah, he did," she replied weakly, thinking of all that money and influence lost to her forever. She rallied though, pointing out the obvious flaws in someone so intelligent. "He made a hobby out of proving his superiority time and again, the little ass kisser! So he's richer than Bill Gates now. So what? He had that target on his back because of his snotty attitude... _that's_ why he went down that day. The stupid little bow tie he wore was just icing on the cupcake. I mean, what ten year old kid wears a sweater vest and tie? All that was missing was the pipe, a dog, and some slippers!"

"Okay, okay. Sorry I brought old Norm up. It wasn't a very good example, but I still say, Girard isn't like that. He might be nerdy material, but he sure doesn't dress like one. And he's not wearing a mask to get noticed either," Christine insisted.

"Oh, I dunno. Remember that alto from chorus?" and Louise snapped her fingers searching for a name, "Grace...um Something or other. Now _she_ wanted the attention! She wore a turban to rehearsal until that skinny little schnook behind her knocked it off her head."

"Uh, her name was Gwen Avery, and that skinny little _schnook_ was me," Christine said indignantly. " _I_ knocked it off her head, Sorelli. I couldn't see a damned thing because of it."

"Right! I rest my case. Affectations, Christine. _Affectations_. People don't want to disappear into obscurity anymore. They want to stand out from the rest of the herd and be noticed, and for that reason, we now have weirdos comin' out of the woodwork!"

Christine munched dejectedly on her toast. "Jelly would have helped this." Her friend merely stared harder at her. "Nah. Erik doesn't seem the type. I think he wants to blend in, cause it was difficult to tell at first. In low light he looks normal. Well, sort of. He has yellow eyes... how normal is that? But the mask is a pretty decent one made out of...I dunno. Some kind of rubber, maybe? Pretty lifelike."

She got up and put more bread in the toaster and refilled their coffee cups, while Sorelli sat and stared at her in disbelief.

"Are you for real? You have a seven year old daughter in that apartment, and you let an escapee from the circus in?"

"He has a birth defect."

"Okay. He's an escapee from the circus with a birth defect! You don't _know_ him! I read once that use of opiates can turn eyes yellowish, or...or cause jaundice. You've always been far too trusting, and one of these days someone is going to take advantage of that fact."

"Someone already did."

Louise's eyes softened. "Yeah, I know, Chris. I know," she said soothingly, reaching for her hand and giving it a squeeze. Noting her friend's defeated air, she decided to dial back her irritation a bit. She would make sure to check out the man for herself. "Birth defect, huh? Must be pretty bad to cover his face like that."

"Mm."

"What's he like?"

"Not as awful as you seem to think. Except for his violin playing, he's quiet to the point that I barely know he's there. And for a man, he's very neat. Neater than me."

Louise snorted. "That's not saying much."

Christine ignored her. "He's so thin, there's only one side to him, so I doubt he eats a whole lot. When I got up this morning, he was already gone. As usual. It's been like that ever since he arrived on my doorstep."

"He a musician?"

"Uh huh. You know that place called LipSync on Fifth? The club with the enormous red lips on the outside of the building? Girard is keyboard and frontman."

"No kidding? I was there once with Meg. Believe it or not, it's kinda fun. Dancers always wonder what the other side is like...you know, standing up there and pretending to belt out a few tunes."

"Yeah, I wonder about that myself sometimes."

Louise reached across the table and patted Christine's arm. "You'll find something, pumpkin. Just you wait and see. Time to hitch up those big girl pants. I'll check around at the theatre...see if there's any openings in the chorus." She eyed her friend closely. "Why don't you call it a day and go home for a good hot soak in the tub?"

She looked at the other woman, slightly amused. "That's your answer to everything, Louise, not mine." She stood up. "Thanks for the coffee. I see your blatant attempt to get me outta here, you know."

Louise raised an eyebrow. "That's because _I_ need a good soak, but one of these days I'm gonna turn up at your door. I want to see your new roommate."

"Sure. Why not? I bet he'll love being stared at by you."

"Ya never know. He might just enjoy some lively conversation from another adult."

Christine pulled the door open and said over her shoulder, "In that case, I'll see if I can find him one."

* * *

When she returned to her apartment later that afternoon, she found Erik deep in conversation with Mrs. Turley in front of the building. She heard a squeal of laughter from the woman as the man leaned in and said something to her. They turned as she walked up to them, the black woman looking slightly triumphant, Christine's new roommate a little smug.

"I told you it was better to sublet the apartment, didn't I, Mrs. de Chagny? Mr. Girard here is offering his services to do some repair work round the buildin'."

"Oh? And what does he get out of it?"

"A hefty discount on the rent."

Christine's ears perked up at this. "You don't say?"

"He's gonna start by painting over all that nasty graffiti in the entrance."

Mrs. Turley went inside, while Christine lingered on the sidewalk. "She's a very accepting woman," Erik said. "I'm used to furtive glances, not friendly chatter."

"She could barely see you. Mrs. Turley is blind as a bat, and probably left her glasses inside. She does all the time," glancing at him with cold amusement. "You didn't notice her squinting at you?"

Erik _had_ noticed, thinking she was merely winking at him a lot, but he chose not to answer Christine, instead looking askance at her. "What are you waiting for?"

"My daughter's bus is due in any minute."

"Any luck with your job search today?"

"None."

"Too bad."

"Yeah. Too damned bad. Not only that, I have a friend who seemed awfully entertained by my tale of woe. They have a word for that, I think. Schasafoot...er...Schezenfrood-"

"I believe the word you are searching for is Schadenfreude," he said smoothly.

"Yeah. That. I should have known you'd have the answer," her tone a mixture of annoyance and admiration. "Ever wear bow ties and sweater vests, Girard?"

He looked at her in slight bafflement, but recovered quickly. "That was last year's look. I am attempting something more casual now."

She looked him up and down and said with a sour smile, "Sixties grunge with a funereal twist? Somehow it works for you."

"Glad you approve, de Chagny," his eyes holding a gleam of humor, "but getting back to your friend, I don't think she was entertained by your hardship. Do you?"

The silence spun out as she gave his question some serious thought.

"No," Christine said finally. "Maybe _I'm_ the one who'd enjoy a little Schadenwhatever right about now. Guess I should at least thank you for giving me some breathing room with the rent," she told him grudgingly.

"I did it for me, but you're welcome anyway," he said, amused by her reluctance to be friendly.

The bus squealed to a stop in front of the building and he made good his escape.

* * *

After dinner that night, to which Erik never made an appearance, Min sat on the floor in front of the TV doing her homework while Christine did the supper dishes. He came out of his room wearing a fresh shirt, black of course, she thought snidely, his dark hair clean and shining as it brushed softly against his jaw. He took an apple out of the bowl in the middle of the table, and when Christine raised an eyebrow at him, he held it up.

"Do you mind?"

"Help yourself." She looked from the bowl to the apple, snorting. "Oh, that's right. You just did," and didn't protest when he put it back. As he leaned over the table, she caught a whiff of cologne. Paco Rabanne. He smelled good. It irritated her. "Going out, I see."

Erik felt a ripple of meanness and replied casually, "What makes you think that?"

"Clean shirt," she glanced down at his feet, "and you shined your boots."

"I'm not going out, Christine. I have someone coming in."

"Must be a good friend to get all duded up like that."

"Oh, _she_ is, and I haven't seen her in years. You don't mind if she visits, do you? I will be sure to keep her locked in my room," he rejoined with a decided leer.

Christine's reaction was what he had expected. And then some.

She threw her dishrag in the sink and rounded on him. "Didn't we already go over this? My daughter doesn't need to be exposed to that sort of thing, so you keep your little play pal the hell outta my home!" *

He cupped a hand over one ear and bent toward her. "Excuse me? I don't believe I heard you very well. I thought you said _your_ apartment, but that can't be right," he said gently. His manner had changed in a heartbeat as he thoughtfully regarded her, leaning in much too close. "And if I may be clear on this, did you just tell me that conversing with a guest in my apartment was not permitted by you? Everything in _your_ bedroom with Khan was perfectly innocent, was it?"

Christine felt Girard's animosity and the truth of his statement at the same time.

She said nothing.

Erik glanced in the living room, the little girl's head bent studiously over her books, and had a slight change of heart. "Relax, Christine. I am going out to meet my... old acquaintance for a discussion about work." Hastily, he changed the subject. "I took it upon myself to look at your daughter's computer. I'm an early riser and need to fill my time until the world catches up with me."

She decided not to be offended by the liberty he had taken. Hopefully, they could keep their arguments to one snit per day. At least he was a quiet early riser. "Well, doc, how long does the patient have to live?"

"With a new graphics card, a few more years."

"And what will that cost?"

"They come as low as forty-four dollars, all the way to a thousand, but for what your daughter uses it for, one for a hundred will do the job."

"Might as well be a thousand then," she complained. "I can't afford the cheapest let alone one for a hundred bucks. I'm sure you've noticed that Min has a problem with her eye."

He nodded. "Strabismus...or better known as wandering eye."

"Yeah, that's right," she said, not surprised anymore by his knowledge. "She had to wear an eye patch up until last year, but she's improved so much she only needs the glasses now to strengthen that eye. But, she's a growing girl and glasses aren't cheap. I need to find work...and soon."

"Perhaps something will turn up," Erik said mildly.

"Yeah, more trouble."

He looked at her curiously. "Are you always so negative?"

"Only when some man runs off and leaves me and my daughter homeless. Other than that, I'm a laugh riot."

"Mom? I can't get this problem," Min called.

Christine looked at Erik and shrugged. "What can I say? She takes after her mother when it comes to math."

"Maybe I can help," he answered, walking over to where Min sat crossed legged on the floor. He squatted down and looked over her shoulder at her math homework. "Add these three groups of numbers together," he murmured, pointing to each group. That is the total number of blocks. The amount of stacks has already been given to you. Understand?"

"That's all?" She looked up at him, her wide grin at having a live-in problem solver making her dimples stand out.

"That's all," he agreed, and stood up. "One of these days, I will show you some card tricks involving math." He joined Christine in the kitchen and prepared to leave.

"Where did you learn so much about computers?" curious in spite of herself.

"I liked taking them apart and putting them back together again." He shrugged. "It was something to do."

Christine snorted. "Most kids play games on them. I take it you didn't?"

"Sometimes."

"Or watch TV?"

"Sometimes."

"Uh huh. After you put them back together again," and at his nod of agreement, she had to smile when it dawned on her. "You were one of those."

"And that would be...?"

"Brainy kid."

His lips quirked up slightly. "Good night, Christine."

With the snick of the door, she turned to her daughter, Erik's prior words coming back to her. "Min, did you resent me for having Nadir in the apartment? I never thought... I never-"

Her daughter closed her books and got up, moving to the table, where she glanced at the apple Erik had put back. She hoped he hadn't been hungry. "No," giving the matter very little thought. "I didn't mind. Why should I?" she asked innocently.

Christine let out the small breath she'd been holding. "No reason, I guess. Want some pudding?"

"Yeah. Can I eat it in the living room while I watch Blues Clues?"

"Sure."

Min stood with her mother at the fridge, her forehead creased in a frown. She never thought much of Nadir sharing their apartment. He was nice to her in a predictable grown up stay out of my hair way, but Erik was different. He didn't pat her on the head or talk down to her. She hadn't known him long, but she already liked him.

Which was why her mother's mean attitude toward her new friend bothered her.

Christine handed her daughter a chocolate pudding and a spoon. The girl chewed her lower lip, wondering how to bring up the subject, and decided the best way was to just say it. "Why don't you like Erik? He only wanted an apple and we have lots. He's nice, mom," she insisted. "He even likes Scooby!"

"I don't _dis_ like him, Min, but he's just too weird. Besides, who invited him? * We were fine until he showed up and ruined everything."

"But he didn't ruin anything. Nadir did!" she protested.

Christine knew it well, but for the life of her, refused to back down. "Go watch your show, then get ready for bed."

"Okay."

She sat down heavily and stared at the bowl of apples. "Way to go, Christine. You just came across like the stingy talking tree who wouldn't give Dorothy a friggin' apple.

"And none for you, Erik," she whispered drearily.

* * *

He was settled into a booth at the back of the coffee shop, the startled waitress having already taken his order. Coffee. Black. It was against his better judgment to spend any amount of time with Carla, but he had to admit to a little curiosity as to what she wanted. After dodging her everyday after work, he'd finally run out of luck when she cornered him backstage, and he reluctantly agreed to meet with her. He looked up as the waitress returned with his coffee, nearly spilling it in her effort to get away from him.

"Take a peek beneath the mask and you'll be going a lot further than just the serving counter," he muttered, and took a careful sip of his coffee.

A commotion at the front, had him guessing rightly that Carla had arrived. Sure enough, she spied him sitting alone, and raised a hand in greeting.

Which was odd.

Carla Giudicelli never advertised when she was with Erik the Freak Girard. She preferred anonymity to broadcasting any type of relationship with him. He observed her as she made her way toward him, still lovely and vibrant with her elegant features and slender form encased in artfully worn jeans and low cut red blouse. She slipped into the seat across from him and slid a hand along the table to grasp his fingers. He pulled them away just in time, instead reaching for his coffee cup.

"Really, Erik!" she pouted. "After five years I would think you could show a little more enthusiasm." Her smile was charming as always- when it pleased her. "Old _friends_ meeting again after so much time has gone by."

"What do you want?"

"Oh, my! So abrupt." The waitress brought over a menu, which Carla impatiently waved away. "Just hot tea with milk," she said curtly, as she observed Erik across the table. "All right. Gloves off," and her smile fell away as if it had never been. "This is a decent job for me, and has been for two years. Why here, Erik? Can't you find another place to pop in and out of besides this one?"

"No interest in my whereabouts all these years, Carla? No...'what have you been doing with yourself, Erik?' Oh, but you already know where I was for three of those years, don't you?"

"You have no right to hold a grudge against me!" She lowered her voice. "I did nothing wrong. It was you and your damnable temper, so get off your high horse!"

He simply regarded her silently, before saying with cold amusement. "Still so full of compassion, darling. Nice to know some things never change."

"Look. Can't we dispense with the animosity? If you won't move on, then we'll have to at least be civil to one another."

"Why?"

Carla paused impatiently as the waitress set a mug of tea in front of her, and topped off Erik's coffee. Giudicelli opened a packet of sugar and dumped it into her cup along with a dollop of milk. "Why? So neither one of us screws up from unhealthy doses of hostility, causing one or the other to drop a note or flub a lyric."

"Ever so practical, _Miss_ Giudicelli. I see you lost your married name mighty fast."

"I wanted nothing more to do with that louse, and that included his name."

I have always admired your willingness to step over anyone standing in your way. Among other things," he stated, his eyes raking her body.

Bingo. "Well then, do we agree to at least _try_ to get along?" she asked hopefully.

He shrugged. "I suppose. But I am puzzled by your real reason for this sudden interest in my company," he looked lazily at her, contempt shining from his eyes, "for I really don't care to continue where we left off."

Carla was fairly certain that his reluctance could be changed with a little work on her part. He was still a tiny bit angry with her. No matter. She was tired of her aimless existence, and the men she had associated herself with in the last few years. They had been using her just as she had been using them. Erik had once tripped all over himself to ingratiate himself with her.

It could be fun to have him do it again.

Among other things.

It occurred to her after meeting him five years later, that a little dalliance would be amusing, seeing as how he had practically dropped right into her lap. Besides, she had heard rumors that Erik's star was on the rise once more, or would be if he stayed around long enough to cash in on it. Instead of seeing it through, he moved on when the interest in him became too much. He would be great if he forgot the past and let his talent shine through instead of running away.

Her youth was now behind her, although at forty-one she was hardly an antique. The fear was there that someday her looks would be gone and she would wake up one morning all alone. She took a sip of tea and briefly closed her eyes, oddly content as she sat across from him and soaked up the tones of that beautiful voice again.

Actually, his showing up in this town, in this very club, was an odd coincidence and one she intended to explore. And she knew of one other person who would be interested to know Erik's new address.

"Whatever you say," she purred, "but I intend to change your mind."


	4. Neither a Borrower Nor a Lender Be

Christine pushed her shopping cart along the narrow aisle, deciding between spaghetti for dinner or canned soup. The soup was cheaper, but the pasta sounded better; her depression insisting on loads of starch. She was listlessly picking through the lettuce and tomatoes, when someone spoke over her shoulder and she stiffened.

"Afternoon, Christine."

She spun around and looked up at him. "Erik. How...nice to see you."

"Is it? Are you sure that's the word you had in mind?"

"If I say _nice,_ I mean nice," she said, a faint color rising in her cheeks. Blush?

 _Her?_

 _"_ Nice it is," he replied lightly, amused by her attitude.

Christine grabbed hold of her cart, mumbling a goodbye to him as she hurried by.

He snatched his own cart and careened around a middle aged woman staring at him distrustfully, and caught up with his reluctant roommate, striding beside her to Christine's annoyance. "How was the job search today?"

"Less a search and more of a way to ruin a good pair of shoes," she said glumly.

"And my good mood," she added, giving him a subtle hint.

"Why not let your computer do the walking?"

"Because as you already know, it can barely crawl, let alone walk. It's one of Louise's hand me downs, and was only good for my daughter to play games on, and now it doesn't even do that."

"Louise?"

"A more than adequate ballerina, who just happens to be my best friend. Forever it seems."

"Oh. Well, you should still be able to use the comp for your needs, even with some serious lag issues, but I'm keeping an eye out for a good graphics card."

"That isn't necessary."

"I don't mind."

"No! Thank you. I'd rather you didn't," she said stiffly.

"There's no need to be unfriendly, Christine. Why not get along? It is in our best interests to do so."

"I'm finding it hard right now to apply myself to being friendly, Erik. Maybe in a year or two," she said dryly, and looked around her at the shoppers eying the two of them. No. Eying her companion. "Look, I uh...I have to get this done before Min's bus arrives, so, I'll um, I'll see you later."

"Wait a minute... please." He took a step toward her.

She took a step back.

Christine pointedly regarded Erik's hand which had suddenly appeared, long pale fingers curled slightly around her wrist.

He released her instantly and stepped back. "We're sharing the same space. How would it be if we pooled our resources and split the food bill as well?" his mouth lifting slightly, "except for any feminine needs of course. That will be your responsibility."

She began to shake her head, then stopped. As reluctant as she was to have anything to do with him, she conceded that it wasn't a bad idea. He had a job. She did not. "I accept."

This surprised him. "You do?"

"Yes."

"Good," and before she could change her mind, put his items in the cart with hers.

Christine managed a wry look. "Not wasting any time, are we?" she muttered as she pushed her cart along, stopping every once in a while to pluck something off of the shelf.

"I see no reason to, do you? And since we're both going to the same place, why not do it together?" Erik reached for a box of Earl Grey and dropped it in the cart, before turning and looking down at her encouragingly. "Who knows? I may just come in handy if you need something off the top shelf."

She was put on the spot. Say no, and she came across as snobby and rude, and he just might rescind his generous offer. She could use all the help she could get with the food bill. Say yes, and she would be spending more time in his company than she wanted. Sighing, she grabbed a can of mixed nuts, tossing it in with the rest of the groceries.

"Sure. Why not?" Christine stole another look at him and decided now was as good a time as any to reinforce some rules. "By the way, Erik. Um, you better get yourself some razors. Mine's getting a little dull."

He was crouched down looking at some coffee on the lowest shelf, and flicked his eyes up at her. "Come again?"

Christine huffed an impatient breath. "Razors. Those really sharp thingies. You know... _shaving._ Mine is getting kind of dull."

He stood up and looked at her narrowly, rolling the can of coffee around and around in his large hands. "Yes, I know what razor blades are and what they do. Perhaps _you_ should replace yours since it is so... busy."

"It's _busy_ because I'm sharing it with you!" she retorted, staring a young couple down who were trying to squeeze past them in the limited space of the aisle.

"And just where did you get the idea that I helped myself to your razor? Just for the record, you understand," he said, managing to speak calmly.

"I see no other razors in the bathroom _except_ mine. So where are you hiding yours, huh? Under your mattress?"

"My face is a barren desert, de Chagny," glancing around and lowering his voice. "Hair does not grow, therefore having a means to remove it would be pointless, don't you agree?" He gestured in the general direction of her legs. "Perhaps you have overworked your shaving apparatus and need to replace it. Don't disposable razors come in bulk?"

Christine stared at Erik in disbelief, wondering how he went along so quietly most of the time, before allowing zingers to tumble out of his mouth willy-nilly. Apparently, he couldn't help himself- open mouth, insert big foot. She felt the heat of an embarrassed flush crawling up her neck and suffusing her face.

Blushing was becoming a habit around him.

"You're a real smooth operator, know that, Girard?" and shoved her cart down the aisle. Maybe she could lose him somewhere in the store. Nope, like a stubborn rash, he'd just show up again.

Shopping done, Christine did her best to ignore him as they each ponied up some cash for the groceries. They ended up with two bags apiece, Erik attempting yet another truce, as he chivalrously took the two heaviest. She glanced surreptitiously at him as he managed his load surprisingly easy. He barely looked able to handle one let alone two, as he walked along beside her in his now familiar boneless stride.

"Hey! Daddy Long Legs! Slow down, will ya?" Christine huffed, as she pushed her shorter legs to go faster.

He immediately slowed, mumbling an apology as he shortened his gait to match hers. He looked up at the store to their right. "How about a bottle of Chianti to go with the spaghetti?"

She didn't remember inviting him to dinner, but supposed it came with the territory. After all, he _was_ helping to pay for it.

"Okay. Leave your bags with me. I'll wait out here."

He nodded and entered the liquor store, Christine settling down to wait. He wasn't gone for more than a few minutes.

Just long enough for her to get robbed.

They sidled up to her as she was setting one of her grocery bags on the sidewalk. The shorter of the two gave her a toothy grin in what he no doubt considered a friendly manner. It immediately made her nervous.

"'Scuse me, doll. Got the time?" his smile jarring.

"Uh, I don't have a watch, but it must be around three-thirty." She kept her eyes on the man as she took a small careful step backward, but it was the other one slowly moving in behind her, who managed to rip her shoulder bag away.

They immediately took off down the street...

...with Christine in hot pursuit.

Her anger at their thievery was outdistancing her common sense. "Help! Someone! Anyone! They stole my purse!" she screamed as she galloped after them, the plastic grocery bag still tightly clutched in one hand.

Erik opened the door just in time to watch dumbfounded as Christine sprinted down the street. "She runs like a girl," he muttered inanely, turning to the clerk at the register just inside the door. He tossed the wine to him and nodded at the bags on the sidewalk. "I expect these to be here when I get back."

"S-Sure, man. No..." the rattled clerk found himself talking to an empty doorway, "...problem."

Erik soon caught up with Christine, his much longer legs carrying him quickly to her as she halted near a ramshackle Buick roughly idling at the traffic light. The two men hopped out of the car and faced her.

"You g-give me back my purse, you...you damned _thief!_ " she panted, out of breath from her mad dash.

"Yeah, sure. I'll give it back just as soon as I empty it," which he proceeded to do, her wallet disappearing into his pocket, the rest of her belongings ending up on the street. He dangled the purse strap from one finger, jerking his eyes over to Erik and immediately dismissing him as a threat. "Want your shit back?" his grin nasty, "come and get it."

With a yell of rage, Christine lunged forward, her intention unclear to Erik. Spit in the man's face? Wrestle him to the ground? Maybe she wanted to lecture him on the immorality of stealing- especially from her. Regardless, she was about to get her purse back- with her ass in it.

A knife had just appeared in one of the men's hands.

"Come on, mama. Get some of this, why don't you?" he grinned, baring his teeth as he beckoned her forward. He squinted at Erik. "How 'bout you, butt ugly?"

Erik shook his head. "You're the one with a knife," he said quietly, wrapping an ironfisted hand around Christine's arm and yanking her back toward him. He kept his eyes on the two hoods, refusing to let go when she began to struggle.

"Your purse must be worth a fortune if you think getting stabbed for it is such a good idea," he muttered grimly from the corner of his mouth.

" _Do_ something!" she spat.

Feeling a growing fatalism, Erik forced the building rage back down and out of sight where it belonged. His body shook as the vague feeling of being restrained, sharpened, along with the phantom jab of a needle in his arm. More head games. He still had them when he felt stressed out.

He was now stressed out.

The accompanying memory brought with it the lingering emotions of sorrow and outrage. "I will not get angry. I _will_ not get angry," even as his eyes took on a feral gleam, and his breathing quickened. " _Bad_ things happen." He shook his head again, quelling the panic those impressions brought with them.

"It is not worth it," he managed to say, terrified that the situation could suddenly explode into violence.

She barely heard him, having no idea what he was going through; she simply wanted her money returned to her.

The two thugs watching the weird metamorphosis of the man in front of them, decided it was time to split. They hopped back in the car, gunning the motor until the light turned green, and sped away with a squeal of bald tires as it rounded a corner and was gone from sight.

"It's all I had," she cried, shoving futilely at Erik, who as yet still kept a hold on her.

"We'll go to the police. Maybe they can get your money back," he said, striving to sound soothing, and failing. His heart was as yet, still trying to trip hammer its way out of his chest. He briefly closed his eyes, reaching for his Happy Place, a calming method which over the years had been employed to counteract dangerous impulses.

The string section in his convoluted brain was playing Charlie Parker's jazz rendition of April in Paris, and he lip synced the words, pushing the mad imp back into the darkest recesses of his mind. _I never knew the charm of spring_ , _I never met it face to face_... _His_ bow slid across the strings, the interval between the notes growing, his pulse slowing as the wild light died from his eyes and he calmed. _I never knew my heart could sing, I never missed a warm embrace._

His seasoned violin played countermelody to the viola and cello... music he alone heard, and letting out a harsh breath, he relaxed even further. "Your life is worth more than a few dollars, isn't it, Christine?" All of this brain activity took mere moments, his hands were curled around her elbows, and he squeezed them gently. "It means nothing to men like those, but it does to your daughter."

His words were softly spoken, but the ring of conviction cut through her anger and misery. Nevertheless, she pushed him away, having felt the slight tremble in his hands, and mistook it for fear of the purse snatchers. She was oblivious to the crowd which had gathered. "This is all your fault!" she raged at Erik. "You and your goddamned wine! Now I don't have a cent to my name," she sobbed, and crouched down to pick up her spilled groceries. The box of spaghetti had split open, spilling pasta across the pavement like jackstraws, and stubbornly, she tried to force them back inside the cardboard container. She sniffled back angry tears, the air redolent with the sharp smell of vinegary brine from the broken jar of pickles lying smashed in the street.

Erik ignored the curious by-standers who surrounded them, and knelt down beside her. "Come on. We'll go back and get the rest of the bags," he said evenly, putting a hand on her arm to help her up.

Christine wrenched away from his fingers and shoved the remaining spaghetti into the bag and stood up. "Leave me the hell alone!" she snapped as he reached for her grocery bag. "I don't need your help! Not now," she started walking on rubbery legs back to the liquor store, "not ever."

"Yes, but you would have been perfectly fine with me getting a knife between my ribs, just as long as you got your purse back!" he sniped, as he trailed her.

"Get away from me!"

Shaking his head, he doggedly followed behind her.

* * *

Supper that evening saw the three of them sitting down for the meal, the tapping of cutlery the only sound coming from Christine's place at the table. She twirled spaghetti around her fork into a tight ball, dragging it through the red sauce, only to release it and start again.

They were both nondescript. They were just the everyday run of the mill type losers that populated a large city. The kind that loved nothing better than to find work on the streets as garden variety slime balls. No features that stood out, or shouted, _here I am! I'm the big effin turd you're looking for._ She glanced covertly at her underfed roommate. Now if _he_ had robbed her at knife point, she would have her thief. She would run out of paper listing all of his identifying characteristics. She had refused to press charges. Against whom? Her money was as gone as her virginity.

Min looked from her abstracted mother to the man sitting nearby. "She gets upset if _I_ don't eat," she whispered conspiratorially to him.

"She is permitted to do so," he whispered back, smothering a grin as he regarded the little girl's mouth, which was liberally smeared with spaghetti sauce. He chanced a look at Christine as she continued in her blue funk, virtually ignoring them as she played with her food.

Erik who had joined them for dinner at Min's insistence and Christine's obvious resentment, sat at the table relating to the girl his watered down versions of different band gigs he'd had in the last two years. Now she sat with chin cupped in one small hand, giggling helplessly while Erik told jokes he had picked up here and there. The clean fit-for-young-ears-only kind.

For Min's part, she was endlessly fascinated by the strange man who had come into their lives like a breath of fresh air.

Now if only she could get her mother to tolerate him.

"What is perfect pitch, Araminta?"

Min shrugged. "Don't know."

"Lobbing a clarinet into the toilet without hitting the rim."

Min's squeal of breathless laughter brought Christine's head up. "Finish your dinner or no pudding."

"But it was funny, mom," she protested. "Tell more, Erik. Please," as she twirled spaghetti on her fork. At a look from her mother, she cried, "I'm eating! See?" and shoveled it into her mouth.

Erik shot another wary glance at Christine, before averting his eyes. "One more then. What is the difference between an oboe and an onion?"

Min shook her head as she speared a cherry tomato and popped it in her mouth, followed by a large drink of milk.

"No one cries when you chop up an oboe."

Min snorted milk out her nose, and grabbed hurriedly for her napkin. Nonstop giggles kept the napkin pressed to her mouth as she snorted helplessly into it.

Erik reached over and gallantly patted her on the back, face flushed with pleasure beneath the mask. No one had ever laughed at his jokes before. No one except-

He slouched in his chair, thin fingers spinning the stem of his wine glass, lips pressed together.

"That's enough, Min," her mother warned.

"One more?" she pleaded.

"No. Now if you're done-"

"Aw, Mom. You're no fun anymore. You used to-"

" _Finish_ your dinner! Now, Araminta."

Min chanced a look at her mother's loaded plate. "You didn't eat as much as I did and _you're_ done!"

"That's it! Go do your homework, young lady."

"Shit...I-I mean _shoot!_ "* Min tugged off the tea towel from around her neck and placed it on the table. "Harry Potter's on tonight!"

"And you've watched it a dozen times already!" Christine replied, unmoved. "Homework. Bath. Bed. _Now_."

"Good night, Erik," Min said softly, shooting a darkling glance at her mother, before scooting off to the bedroom.

"Good night," he replied, still eying Christine speculatively.

"They really cleaned you out, didn't they?"

"Everyone from here to Miami Beach,"* she said miserably as she ran water in the sink.

He stood up from the table and carried the dirty dishes to the counter and set them down. "How much do you need?" he asked, slipping his wallet out of his jeans pocket. He counted through his money, peeling off three tens and a five, and held it out to her. "It's not much, but it's yours- if you want it."

Christine turned to look up at him, one hand holding onto a soapy dish. She carefully rinsed it and put it on the drainboard before facing him. "You would do that for me?"

"You have need of money. I am extending you a loan."

"Okay. But what do you get out of it?" she asked curiously, knowing he was barely flush himself.

He shrugged, a simple lifting of one shoulder, easy and unaffected. "Well, perhaps you could be...nice to me."

Christine, who had felt a warmth stealing into her chest at his generosity, found herself scowling instead. " _Nice,"_ she hissed as though she were a large rubber ball leaking air. "Nice. _How_ exactly?"

Erik, still not too concerned, shrugged again. "The word is self explanatory. I am certain you are more than familiar with it. Although you don't often practice it."

Ugly suspicion narrowed her blue eyes. "I'm not sure I like what you're implying."

"How many definitions of nice are there, Christine?"

"I'm only concerned with the one that you meant! As in, give me a little lovin', honey. Let me into your pants, honey. _That_ kind of nice. Well, guess what? You can go to Hell!" and marched into the living room where she plopped down in a chair and turned on the television, effectively tuning him out.

He was hard on her heels, his sense of hurt quickly making room for his old stand-by. Anger. He looked around for an outlet...

...and found it.

A lustrous eight by ten of Nadir Khan was tacked on the wall. The darkly handsome face of his old friend had changed somewhat, his bright cheesy grin having been replaced with a set of teeth missing a few pearly whites, not to mention the numerous tiny holes scattered across his cheeks, giving him a pockmarked diseased look. It was Khan the village idiot, and Erik admired it wholeheartedly. With a flourish, he selected a dart from the plastic drinking glass sitting on the end table, having been graciously afforded this opportunity by Christine- he was after all, one of Nadir's victims.

One of the lesser, of course.

He wasn't sure whose idea it had been to tack Khan's picture to the wall for target practice. He surmised that the de Chagny ladies were working in tandem on this one. Araminta executed the defacing with her black crayon, and Christine gave it a place of honor on the wall. Closing one eye, he carefully lined up his shot, before letting the dart fly, pleased to see it land smack in the middle of Khan's handsome nose.

"Bull's eye," he muttered viciously, before turning to the angry woman sprawled in the chair, refusing to look anywhere but at the television screen.

Hell hath no fury like a childish woman scorned.

"Just what do you think I was attempting to get from you?" knowing full well what she had insinuated. He simply wanted her to admit it. "Aside from a pleasant attitude?"

Her eyes never left the TV screen. "What all men want, Erik. A screw. A quick lay. Nookie. Although I think I'm wayyy under-priced here. Thirty-five bucks in this town wouldn't even get you a kiss."

"You are accusing me of an indecent proposal?"

"Well, _that's_ a quaint way of stating it! But, yeah, of course I am. I calls it as I sees it, honey," she sneered.

A muscle in his jaw worked furiously as he scooped the remote into his hand and jabbed the off button. Christine was left staring at a blank screen for one long second before exploding out of her chair and making a grab for it. Erik figuratively raised the bar, holding the remote tantalizingly out of her reach.

"How _dare_ you!" she fumed. "You have no right to waltz in here and take _my_ things!"

"Mmhm." He let her jump several times for it, enjoying himself more than he would admit, his sense of the ridiculous, making anger at the moment impossible. She was so cute trying to grab it from his hand, as he easily held it high above her head. She was pig-headed, he would give her that. A cute, dainty, squealing little pig.

"Where is your dignity, Christine? Look at you! Jumping up and down like an excited ten year old," the laugh in his voice fueling her to jump even higher.

"I seem to lose it around men," she panted. "Give. it. back!"

"What? Your dignity?" He shook his head, a glossy wing of black hair slanting across his masked cheek. "I had nothing to do with the loss of your dignity."

"Give me my remote, you...you... _beast_!"

"Not until you apologize for your erroneous mistake concerning my intentions, due to your um... recent adversity."

"Oh, cut the crap, Erik! I know big words too."

"Of course you do," he soothed.

Giving up the remote as a lost cause, the wind left her sails, and she slunk back to the kitchen, plunging her hands into the cooling dishwater.

He set the remote down, feeling cheated of a pleasant activity. Rattling Christine's cage. He entered the kitchen behind her, picked up a towel, and began drying dishes.

"You don't have to do that," her voice sullen.

"I don't mind," he returned quietly. He set a dried dish on the counter and reached for another. This was nice, and cringed at the innocent word that had caused two supposedly level headed adults to suddenly regress to children. After a few minutes of a silence which was nearly comfortable, Erik broke it.

"My offer still stands, but you can forget nice, Christine. A simple thank you will do."

She stared at the water in front of her, washing a cup over and over, until it blurred and became two. She rinsed them in cold water, sluicing them clean as the tears spilled over. She ran the back of a hand across her eyes.

"I'm...sorry. S-Sometimes I forget that people don't always have an ulterior motive. Nice shouldn't be a word with a hidden meaning." She bowed her head and sighed. "I've become so cynical about other people's intentions, that I-"

Christine finally looked at him. "You've been more than decent through all this," she said, realizing it was only the truth. "Especially seeing as how you got screwed too."

Erik said nothing for a moment. He reached for another dish and wiped it carefully, his movements economical and fluid. "Take the money." He nodded at the bills lying on the counter. "You have a growing child to feed."

She nodded tiredly. "I'll pay you back as soon as I possibly can." She let the water out of the sink and rinsed down the suds before turning to him. "T-Thank you."

"You're welcome." He folded the towel neatly and turned to go.

"Erik? I'm going to make a pot of coffee. Care for some?"

He shook his head. "Another time perhaps? I'm going to the club tonight for some practice. Maybe a little jam session afterward."

Christine put her concerns away for the present, and decided that being decent with this man didn't have to be so difficult. "How's it going?"

"Not bad, I guess, but crunch time isn't very far off. That's why an informal session will help us open up to one another. We sometimes switch instruments."

"Oh yeah? What do you slum on?"

His smile was shy. "All of them."

"I should have known that, boy genius," trying for an answering smile, and finding it didn't hurt at all. "Yeah, a little vamping is good for morale."

Erik's interest was piqued. By her knowledge _and_ the smile. "You seem to know something about musicians yourself."

"My dad played the violin." She shrugged. "I've been to a few jam sessions in my day."

Interesting.

"Yes, well, I better get going." He gestured to the living room, a smile hovering on his mouth. "I return you to your remote. No harm done, I trust?"

"Just my pride, but I'll live."

"Good night, then."

She stared at the door after he'd gone, wondering at the slight shift in their relationship.

Interesting.


	5. Jealousy is the Green-eyed Monster

**Squishmich- Erik can always retreat inside his head for a little self-calming. Sometimes he just needs to turn up the volume a bit more. As for being frustrated with Christine? Go right ahead ;)**

 **Gingersnaps44- Don't know about anything in future, but this one will be finished.**

* * *

Meg took another huge bite of her pastrami on rye as Sorelli morosely chewed another mouthful of salad. "Do you have to enjoy it that much?" she asked sourly.

"Mmmph?"

Giry's cheeks were so full, Christine was reminded of the chipmunk in their little strip of backyard behind the brownstone.

"Eating, dammit! Don't look so godawful happy about it."

"I'm not," Meg protested once she had swallowed. "I'm just hungry," and popped two french fries in her mouth, washing it down with iced tea. "I need sustenance, Louise, not a bowl of bunny food."

"Greens are good for you! Better than that mile high pile of meat you have there. Why you could-"

"Stop already!" Christine groaned. "Don't watch her if it bothers you so much, Louise." She observed Meg Giry, the small, dark haired ballerina with the soulful eyes of a basset hound, now demolishing her second half of sandwich. It really was a lot of food for a waif-like dancer who couldn't weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet while holding an anvil. Where she put it was one of those enduring mysteries like Stonehenge or D.B. Cooper. Meg's appetite was legendary among ballerinas everywhere, and generated a lot of envy as evidenced by Sorelli's attitude.

"Okay, okay. Her _enjoyment_ of it is my only beef. She's downright orgasmic about food. It's sick, it is. She's a walking toothpick! Where does it go?"

"Mum says I take after Dad's side of the family, so it must be genetic."

"Definitely your father's side," Louise stated. "I love your mother, but she's not a delicate little flower. Your dad watches her like any minute he'll screw up, and she's gonna pick him up and send him flying through a window."

Meg arched a brow. "Well, where do you think I learned how to do my grand jetes?"

"I dunno. I'm guessing your mother?"

"Nope. From dear old dad. I've seen him go straight up in the air trying to get away from Mum."

"So where's the appetite come from?"

"My mother."

"I rest my case, Giry."

Meg ate on unconcerned. "Jealousy will get you nowhere, Lou Lou. Protein is what you need for that entrechat you can't seem to stick in rehearsal."

Christine tuned out their bickering. She was well used to it. At least they were leaving her alone for a change. She sipped her lemon water and ate some soup. Meg had been a friend since their first show at the Abbey Theatre three years ago, and Louise and she went back to grade school and growing up in the small town of Bedford Falls, Ohio. They cheered each other's triumphs and commiserated on their losses. Anymore, there seemed to be less of the former and more of the latter.

Which is what they were doing today and Christine was the woman of the hour. After offers of money and shoulders to cry on, they had insisted on taking her out to lunch, thinking a solid meal would help keep up her flagging spirits for her ongoing job search. She had decided to try her luck at the theatre where Louise and Meg were working, and after lunch see about an audition for a spot in the chorus.

"How's your roomie been?" Louise asked. "He of the mask. What's his name? V? Or is it Michael Myers?" winking at Meg.

"Ha ha, Sorelli. Actually, Erik's really not _that_ bad. He's sort of shy in a quirky kind of way, and has this...oh, I don't know...an _eagerness_ for companionship." Christine was warming to her subject and conveniently forgetting her very recent resentment toward him.

"You've done a complete about face then," Louise said suspiciously. "Not looking for ways to evict him anymore?"

"No, of course not! We even played darts the other night and watched some TV together," hastily rearranging her battle for ownership of the remote. "You know, I don't think he's all that used to people, especially women. He's kind of quiet... bashful even. Why he...

"W-Why h-he-" She was staring rudely at another table.

"What are you gawking at?" Sorelli demanded, turning around and glancing over her shoulder.

"Erik," Christine breathed, her mouth hanging open.

As one, they all turned to look at the couple who had just been seated in a corner of the restaurant. Louise did a double take as she studied Christine's roommate. She turned to her friend with a wry smile. "Did you mean _that_ Erik? Ha! Well, he _is_ built like a spaghetti noodle, just like you said, but his face looks pretty normal from where I'm sittin'. If he's wearing a mask, it's a damned good one!"

Christine looked at her indignantly. "Of course it's a mask! Wouldn't I know?"

Sorelli's shrug was indifferent. "If you say so, but for someone not used to being around women, that is one hell of a shining example of womanhood he's chatting up." She tapped her finger against her lower lip. "I dunno, but he looks _very_ comfortable from this angle, Chris. Maybe it's just you that gets him all tongue tied and bashful."

"Yeah. Guess so," she replied, taking one last look at the lovely woman sitting across from Erik. Just then, he looked up and stared straight into Christine's eyes. Caught ogling them, she waggled her fingers at him, before sliding down in her seat and looking the other way.

Meg wiped her mouth and sighed contentedly, patting her stomach. "That'll hold me 'til dinner." She leaned close to Christine. "So that's Erik, the man of mystery. He's everything you said- and more," dragging her gaze away from the couple, "except for the shy part."

"And the bashful around women," Sorelli added, sniggering. "I don't suppose he has an identical twin somewhere. This one is the confident crazy-good-in-the sack, sex god brother who mows through women like tenpins. _Your_ Erik is out there somewhere, hiding in a corner, just waiting for quitting time so he can slink home to you and become all bashful and tongue tied again."

Meg glanced at her sadly. "Poor, Christine," she sighed. "Saddled with the wrong brother," and the two ballerinas looked at each other and erupted into snorts of laughter.

"I don't think I'll be seeking work at the Lyceum after all. I can't imagine spending an entire day in the same building as you two twits," Christine pronounced wearily.

Lunch over, the three made their way to the door, where Christine stopped and changed direction. "Wait for me outside," she said over her shoulder, and headed for the corner table.

Meg took Louise's arm and attempted to walk her out the door. Sorelli shook her off. "Are you crazy?" she hissed. "I'm not budging. We might have to pick up the pieces and give her moral support."

"What for?"

"That woman doesn't have a single hair out of place, Giry! She could've just stepped out of Glamour magazine. Now check out our Christine. She looks like she just went through a windstorm."

"It's not windy today, Louise."

"Exactly."

"Oh. _Ohh!_ "

Sorelli nodded glumly. "She doesn't stand a chance against all that style." The two friends loitered near the entrance, far enough into the restaurant to have a good view of the proceedings.

Christine swore she could hear a drum beat keeping time as she got closer and closer to Erik's table. This was therapy for her passive-aggressive tendencies toward the opposite sex. She would be nice to him if it killed her.

Carla looked up from buttering a roll, as Erik rose to his feet at Christine's approach. Giudicelli eyed the other woman through narrowed green eyes, glaring at the petite blonde with curly, shoulder length hair. Her eyes raked over the newcomer's figure, noting the slender frame, clothed in a gray pencil skirt and pale pink top.

She hated Christine on sight.

"Hi, Erik. I saw you come in and just wanted to say, uh...wanted to say... hi," she finished weakly, watching the other woman out of the corner of one eye.

"Hello, as well," pleasantly surprised by Christine's friendly overture.

He wasn't familiar with this woman.

He turned to his companion and made the introductions, both women sizing each other up...

...and taking an instant dislike to one another.

"Carla and I are...acquainted from years back. She's a singer at LipSync."

"Oh?" Christine replied archly, but to Erik it sounded more like, 'mrrow?' "How nice," her smile as fake as the Rembrandt print on her bedroom wall.

He was now the mouse that the two cats would be batting back and forth in their bid for ownership. Carla had an ulterior motive, but Christine had absolutely no clue as to why she was throwing her hat in the ring.

He was _her_ roomie. Hers and Min's. Together they were breaking Erik in as the ideal resident of their little home, and they still had a ways to go. She wasn't about to let all that hard work go to waste for this bimbo to come in and snatch him away. Realizing in that moment that she no longer wanted him out of her apartment and their lives, was something Christine refused to dwell on for long.

Because it didn't make any sense.

Erik's eyes darted uneasily between the two women, feeling a chill sweep through the room. Nice. _That_ word again. He had never been considered a catch before and couldn't help but be intrigued by two lovely ladies fighting over his bones. Literally. What he didn't understand, was the why of it.

Neither did they.

Carla returned Christine's plastic smile with one of her own. "I'm beyond thrilled that Erik and I get to work together again," she purred, slapping Christine's paw away from her dinner, "we go back years, and it's wonderful to be renewing our relationship. We were very...close at one time."

"Oh! You're that _old_ acquaintance Erik mentioned," glancing innocently between them. "He told me you've known each other for many years." Christine eyed Carla like she was the embodiment of a female Methuselah, unsheathing her claws and dragging _her_ mouse away from the other woman.

Erik, caught between a rock and a bed of nails, stared pointedly at his watch. "Say, would you look at the time! We only have an hour to eat, so-"

"Yeah, right, right." Christine, still not sure what the hell she was doing, realized she would have to quit the field and allow Carla to win the first skirmish by default. "I'll see you at home, okay?" She smiled easily at Giudicelli. "Nice to meet you, Darla."

"It's Carla," she corrected sweetly. _You bushy haired little monster._

Christine could feel the other woman's eyes boring into the back of her head, and quelled the urge to turn around and stick her tongue out at her. She caught up with her friends as they stood near the entrance, gawking at her.

Louise looked closely at her. "You all right, Chris?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" she asked curiously.

"Because... well, what was that all about? That cat was staring daggers at you the whole time!" An awful thought occurred to Sorelli. "Is there something you're not telling us? Like maybe you and Erik are a little closer than you're letting on? Course, I don't know how. He makes my eyeballs ache."

"Shut up, Sorelli. Min likes him a lot."

"Yes. So you say, so you say. But if I'm not mistaken, you think he's a little hot yourself. Not exactly your type though...too damned skinny for one thing. You like them loaded with muscle," she crooked her thumb back at the restaurant, "and uh, _he's_ not even close. Then there's the little matter of that mask, wears lots of black, and has penetrating eyes; it sounds like I'm describing Batman, but I'm dead certain it's not Christian Bale."

"Yeah. Could you see Erik in a pair of tights?" Meg put in.

Louise studied her friend. "Is there something you want to tell us?"

She snorted at something so patently ridiculous. "I recently got dumped, Louise, so back off! Nothing is going on except the manure you're spreading in that fertile imagination of yours!"

"Okay, so you're a fast worker on the rebound! Sue me."

Meg added another two cents worth. "How you ever let him in the door, is what I want to know. You got a kid, Christine. Do you trust him around her?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," she said a bit defensively, "but they're never alone together anyway. Besides, Min likes him and she's a good judge of character. She never really liked Nadir, and look how _that_ turned out! I should have taken a page from her book."

"Yes, Christine," Sorelli teased, hazel eyes bright with amusement. "Next time, _listen_ to your seven year old daughter. Don't make the same mistake twice. In fact, lend her to me. She can sniff out the intentions of the next man I meet _before_ I lend him money he's never going to repay! The only one who never demanded money was...

"Phil," she finished lamely.

The other two women looked silently at one another. Louise and Philip de Chagny had been an item two years ago, before they each went their separate ways. It hadn't been an amicable parting at the time, but Sorelli would often appear just the tiniest bit nostalgic for the handsome older brother of Christine's ex. If he were to suddenly appear before them, Christine thought it likely that Louise would not say no to a continuation of their relationship.

"Well, I will gladly lend my daughter to you for identification purposes of your next fatal attraction, but I'm her manager, and she doesn't come cheap! Now, may we please get to the theatre before Giry gets hungry again?"

* * *

She danced around the kitchen, singing along with the radio. ' _I'm like a child looking off on the horizon, I'm like an ambulance that's turning on the sirens. Oh, I'm still alive._ _'_ Christine shimmied and bopped as she flipped the pork chops in the pan, the sizzle and aroma of the meat making her mouth water. ' _I'm like a soldier coming home for the first time. I dodged a bullet and I walked across a landmine. Oh, I'm still alive!_ _'_

She had a job interview at the Lyceum Theatre on Monday. After some of the shitty places she had worked over the last few years, this was a definite step up for her if she got it. It wasn't much, and it certainly wasn't what she'd had in mind, but at least she would be making money again. And who knows? Possibly with a foot in the door, she could move on to better things. Unexpectedly, she found herself wanting to tell Erik. She would do so over dinner.

That is if he came home at all. The presence of _that_ woman with him this afternoon had unexpectedly thrown her for a loop. Every time she told herself to quit thinking about him, she was able to follow her own advice for only so long before her mind started to wander in his direction again.

There had to be something wrong with her.

Boredom? _Nope._

Hot for his body? _Hell no._

Glutton for punishment? _Oh, yeah._

Barely out of a relationship with one man, she was crazy to contemplate getting close to another. And he sure as hell wasn't her type, as Louise had been kind enough to point out. She needed to forget any sort of friendship with Erik and consider him as a fellow tenant only. Besides, it was obvious where his interests lay.

And they weren't with her.

Min came out of the bedroom carrying Scooby in his cage and set it down on the worn linoleum floor. Her mother danced over to her and grabbed her hands. "Come _on,_ girlfriend! Shake that tushy!"

Min giggled and started to sway her hips from side to side. "Your mental, Mother!" she complained as they danced, Christine singing along with the radio in their drab kitchen, which sadly, was stuck somewhere in the seventies, surrounded as they were by harvest gold appliances and green walls.

Neither one of them noticed the tall figure in the doorway, standing stock still as he watched the scene in front of him. His interest was first drawn to Christine in her pale blue cropped tee and white cutoffs, which were doing an excellent job of displaying her slender legs. Almost immediately, her voice filtered through to him, and he reluctantly dragged his eyes away from toned calves and slim ankles, but not before one last look at bare thighs disappearing into her shorts. His mind easily supplied a visual of the juncture where legs met crotch in an inverted vee. That warm and secret place...

Erik swallowed noisily, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, a warm flush stealing up to the roots of his hair. _Mind out of the gutter, you._ He instead forced himself to concentrate on her voice.

She wasn't half bad. A solid soubrette, bright and sweet, but by no means weak. His musician's ear picked up on the inconsistencies in her instrument, but even he had to admit, that she was only clowning around, not on a stage. With work, she could be good.

More than good actually.

Min caught sight of him first, and pulled away from her mother. "Erik!" she grinned and went over to him, taking his hand and tugging him toward Christine. "Wanna dance with us? It's one of my favorites, Still Breathing by the band Green Day. Know 'em?"

He nodded. "We have played some of their songs from Revolution Radio." He stood in front of Christine feeling self-conscious as he gazed down at her.

"Really? I love that CD! That's so cool. Isn't it, Mom?"

"Very cool," Christine said quietly, as Min held on to Erik's hand and linked the other with her mother's. "Come on! The song's almost over."

Christine felt a sudden shyness, but in the spirit of the moment, she and Min began dancing again, swaying in place next to a motionless Erik, who seemed a little gobsmacked. Which was why she was startled into a grin when he gently spun Min around, and danced her across the room. She watched her daughter's glowing face as Erik twirled her around their small living room.

The song ended and Christine burst out laughing when Scooby began racing crazily around his cage, before jumping on his wheel and frantically running nowhere.

"Mr. Doo needs a road map," Erik said, as he ran a hand through his hair. "Maybe then he will manage to get somewhere."

"Min. Set the table for three while I toss the salad."

"Only two, Araminta. I have to get back to the club. I only stopped by to take a shower and change clothes."

Min's face fell, but what came out of nowhere for Christine, was the feeling of disappointment _she_ felt. "Oh? Got a date tonight?" keeping her voice even and friendly.

"Only with my keyboard," he responded lightly, looking closely at her, and feeling as though he'd done something wrong.

Christine wanted to tell him her good news, but stubbornly kept quiet. "Don't let us keep you then," and turned to the counter and began putting together a salad.

He had been effectively dismissed, and with a last glance between the now oddly silent mother and daughter, left the room.

* * *

They were going through the last couple of songs settled on for Saturday night. So far, Erik had been given the time to meld his sound with the other band members, the downtime being used to make renovations to the club. He liked what he saw...it was an upbeat space done in shades of purple, silver, and black, with a large area in front of the stage for spectating or dancing. It was decked out in red and purple uplighting and a gobo projector with the name of the club spelled out in red and silver. The stage's backdrop was the city skyline with another gobo projector imposing a pair of large red lips into the midnight sky, while purple and white lights showcased the stage and band.

That's where they were now, running through the picks for their first live show. They had just finished with Scars by Papa Roach, nearly segueing into the Animal's rendition of House of the Rising Sun. Starting with Reggie Accosta's electric guitar and its descending arpeggio, it was followed by the Forte seven's pulsating organ. Erik's strong fingers beat the keys, his growling vocals and talent on the keyboard, making many of the technicians crawling around on stage, stop and watch the unusual man with the remarkable voice.

Carla, sitting on the edge of a table backstage, listened and wondered at all that talent trapped behind that god-ugly face. It wasn't fair that so many mediocre talents had the looks and charm for fame, but couldn't sing for shit. Erik had plenty of talent, being one hell of a musician, and could be oddly charming. She had discovered years ago, that his tall frame held a fluid grace, and much to her surprise, housed a latent sensuality. Unfortunately, Erik lacked even the most rudimentary attractiveness. Hell, she would even settle for normal ugly where he was concerned.

Didn't matter in the end though.

She was dead weary of the shit heels that passed for men these days. Ugly face or not, Erik was all man.

She had plans for Mr. Girard.

They had gathered in the lounge as they usually did after a rehearsal. "How about a nightcap?" she inquired sweetly as she leaned over Erik. He was sitting with Rhodes and Arons, the latter attempting to get a poker game going.

"Come on, Girard! An all-nighter with the boys, or one with Carla here." He held his hands out and moved them up and down. "Which one, heh? A little booty either way, man."

"Shut up, Arons. You talk too much," Erik said mildly.

Griffin's eye was on Carla as she leaned on Girard. He had tried repeatedly to get something going with Giudicelli, and felt he was making headway, when their new lead singer arrived on the scene. Now _he_ was making time with the soprano- and succeeding. Where was the justice?

"We can go to my place and get the game on. What say you, Girard?" Rhodes jerked his chin at Carla. "Bring her with you, if that's what you want. Plenty of space to stretch out, if you get my drift."

Carla batted the back of Griffin's head with a music score. "Yeah, we get you, you little scum bucket," she said good-naturedly.

"Well, whataya say?"

"Erik?" her eyes promising him anything he wanted.

He wasn't in the mood for poker, much less in the mood for more of Carla. She had badgered him into lunch this afternoon, promising the additional company of Kendrick and Griffon as well.

However.

It had been just the two of them.

Carla seemed to be offering him an olive branch with herself attached to it. She wanted to take up where they had abruptly left off five years ago, and he was undecided about it. One thing was certain; when it came to the leaving, he would be doing the honors this time.

He shrugged lightly. "Why not?"

* * *

She opened her eyes at four in the morning, and lay there for a minute, not certain what had awakened her. She slipped out of bed, and tiptoed into the hallway, her eyes falling on Erik's closed door. Christine already sensed that he wasn't in the apartment, but had to know for sure. Familiar with every creaking board, she easily by-passed them, moving silently up to the door and slowly turning the knob.

She opened the door just a bit...

...to a neatly made bed. One that obviously hadn't been slept in all night. She eased the door shut again and made a trip to the bathroom before heading back to bed. She shivered a little, as she washed her hands at the sink, wondering why she gave a damn where Girard was at this early hour. She studied her face in the mirror, disconcerted to see the start of a pimple on her chin. "Damn, period," she muttered, instantly feeling silly.

How many people converse with themselves in the bathroom, for god's sake? _Pass me a square, would you, Chrissie? Make that two._ She snorted laughter.

Unbidden, an image of Carla arose in her mind. "I'd love to see that witch with a big fat zit on the very tip of her snooty nose," she informed her reflection. "Stop, already! Talking to yourself at the ass end of night isn't healthy. Besides. You share an apartment with the man, Christine. Nothing else. Hell, it's not like he's _cheating_ on you!"

Almost against her will, she continued to observe herself in the mirror, her chin spotty, a face creased from her pillow, and puffy eyed with sleep. She looked like shit. "And I'm not even gonna mention the hair that looks like a full blown dandelion exploded on top of your head."

She tried reasoning with the woman in the glass. "So what if he's getting a little. None of your damn business. Remember? You're through with men, and this one is a little harder to figure out than most."

Christine narrowed her eyes at the image staring back at her. "Just before I shut down this inner pipeline for the night, promise me you're not in any way interested in Girard," she whispered to her reflection. " _Promise_ me.

"Not. one. little. bit. I swear it," the woman in the mirror asserted. "Happy?"

"Very." Taking a relieved breath, she got a drink of water, and shuffled off to bed, sliding in beside the lump that was her daughter. He better not even _think_ he's invited to dinner next time he's around long enough to ask. He just better not.

Christine squeezed her eyes shut and wondered just before sleep claimed her, what Erik's favorite food was.


	6. Milk of Human Kindness

Carla opened her eyes to bright sunlight streaming through the uncurtained window. "Make it stop," she groaned, slinging a hand out and grabbing the first thing she felt- a pillow, and when met with resistance, gave it a yank, pulling it over her face. She disappeared into blissful dark again.

"Give it back."

She grunted a response, not even bothering to look at him.

"My head hurts," he whined, and stole his pillow back.

"How would you like a lump to go with that hangover?" she snapped.

Griffin sat up in bed, the sheet sliding from a hairy chest. "That's kinda harsh, doll."

"So is waking up next to you." She squinted into the unrelenting glare saturating every inch of the loft. "What time is it?"

He grabbed his watch from the nightstand. "Just after nine." He glanced down at his naked state. "That was some poker game. I seem to have lost my shirt." He raised the sheet and peered beneath it. "My pants too. That fucking old pal of yours went home with all my money. And then some."

Fucking old pal wasn't quite right, she thought. She was in bed with the wrong man. Erik's face was without a doubt hideous, but he possessed other attributes which more than made up for it. She had been anticipating a reunion, waiting with growing impatience while Girard won hand after hand. She had draped herself over him, pressing up against his bony shoulder, one round breast practically in his ear.

"Fold, darling, and Carla will give you something to smile about. You've won enough tonight. Let your friends have some."

"There are no friends in a poker game, Carla," he said dryly.

"Whatever," she replied, her impatience with him at last bleeding through. "Leave the game, Erik," her plans for a little sexual gratification evaporating right before her eyes.

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"Bad form to win and walk away."

"So lose a little. Make them and me happy. They're not too thrilled with you at the moment, and I would like some of your undivided attention."

She was right. He had glanced around the kitchen table at the assorted pissed faces, and kept the grin from spreading on his own. _That_ would be bad form. "Just one more hand then. I need some ready cash."

"What for?"

"A graphics card."

 _She_ was becoming pissed with him, for she had sensed his willingness to go with her, but Carla had already decided he would need a little more incentive. "A tiny bit of something to entice you into being bad with me," she whispered, slipping her panties into the pocket of his coat. "It's been a long time, darling," she whispered in his ear.

"Yes, it has," he answered, his eyes on the table. "I always did enjoy a good game of seven-card stud."

She had wanted to smack the accompanying smirk off of his mouth, but instead had flounced away from the table in search of another bottle of wine. She found it and Griffin at the same time, and took him and the wine to bed as a consolation prize.

"Where we goin'?"

"Where do you _think_ , Rhodes?" as she pulled him down the short hallway and up the loft stairs. "I have a hell of an itch, and you're the only loser available."

"You mean to tell me I'm _Girard's_ stand-in?" he bleated in disbelief.

"That's exactly what I mean," she sniped. "Would _you_ be interested in the fact that I'm bare assed naked under my skirt?"

He slowed down and let her get further ahead of him. The view was fuckin' amazing. "Oh yeah. Allow me to introduce you to a pal of mine!" he said, grinning.

"You're pal better be friendly."

"Oh, trust me, he's been wanting to meet you for a very long time." They had arrived in the bedroom and begun tugging on each others' clothes. "What's with you and Girard anyway? He sure as shit ain't your type." On further examination, "Hell, he's nobody's type!"

"Not now," Carla muttered, as they tumbled into bed.

All in all, not a bad night, as she began searching for her clothes. "I tried to warn you, Griff. There's two things you do not do with Erik." She frowned as she looked for her truant panties, before remembering where she had deposited them for safe keeping, and slithered into her leather skirt. "Where's my bra?" she muttered, wanting only to leave.

Griffin propped himself on one elbow, and pulled the dangly scrap of red lace out from under her pillow. "This it?" and looked blearily at her. "Wanna finish that, Carl?"

"Don't call me that, you idiot," snatching the bra from his hand. She glared at it for a second, before deciding to leave it off and instead threw on her shirt. She would be leaving here half naked. She began looking for her shoes. "You don't play games with him. Ever. I've never seen him lose."

"Then why the hell ain't he a millionaire by now?"

Carla's shrug was indifferent. "Like I said. It's only a game to him, but one he's damned good at."

" _Now_ you tell me," he snorted, rubbing desultorily at his chest.

She dug a shoe out from under the bed and slid her foot into it. "I told you last night, and you said something to the effect of, and I quote, ' _I can call his bluff easy, so no worries there_ _.'_ Didn't go as planned, did it?"

"Nah, he called mine- and won the pot. That was over two hundred bucks." Rhodes stretched his arms over his head, feeling something in his back twinge in pain. "What was the other thing about Girard?"

She paused before heading into the bathroom. "Feeling a little wiser now, are we?" she teased.

"Cut the shit and just _tell_ me!"

"Don't make him angry."

* * *

Arriving that morning to the apartment, he was treated to a scene of frenetic activity. Mother and daughter constantly bumped into each other as they multitasked-

-badly.

"Come on, Min! Shake a leg! I have an interview in an hour and a half, and I'm not even dressed yet!"

"Can I help?" he inquired.

"Erik! You can have breakfast with me. I have a new box of Cinnamon Crunch," Min cried, pulling him over to the table.

"First, let me see if I can aid your mother in restoring order," he replied, as Christine dashed around the kitchen intent on Min's breakfast. She poured her daughter a glass of orange juice, and set it in front of her, before deigning to look at him.

"Well, you must have had a swell time last night. Found somewhere else to lay your head, I see," her words and manner chilly.

"Poker game."

"I thought you were broke?"

"Not quite. I had just enough to get into the game and won a few hands."

"All night?"

"They kept trying to win it back."

"Terrif. And how is Darla?" she inquired archly.

"Darla?" his forehead wrinkling under the mask. Oh! _C_ arla. He shrugged. "Fine, I guess," not understanding her frosty tone or what he had done wrong. How could he have? He wasn't here all night. "Why the rush, Christine?"

"Because, _Erik_ , I have a job interview at the Lyceum and I'm nowhere near ready!"

"Then go dress yourself. I will get Araminta off to school."

"She needs a lunch packed and I always wait with her 'til the bus comes."

"Done and done. Go get ready."

Not arguing with him, she sighed in relief. "Hey...I owe you one."

"Yes, you do," he replied mildly.

Very soon, he had Min seated at the kitchen table with cereal and toast, while he made her a sandwich and packed some fruit in her lunch box.

Fifteen minutes later, Christine arrived back in the kitchen wearing a floral shift dress and wedge sandals. Her hair was piled on her head in a neat bun, a few blonde tendrils of hair already working loose and framing her small face.

Erik swallowed hard. She looked different.

He didn't like it.

Not at all.

He didn't like the way the dress hugged her slim figure, or the way it showed off slender calves and ankles. He didn't like the long tender curve of her neck, the skin at her nape soft and sweet to look upon.

Kissable.

Very.

His jaw tightened in displeasure, resenting the direction his thoughts were taking him. He disliked the hint of pale peach color on her moist lips, her blue eyes framed lightly in mascara, their lids lowered in such a way, that made him think of cool sheets and warm bodies.

But most of all, he hated the pounding of his heart, and the feeling that all of the air in the room was suddenly gone.

"I hate to run off like this, but I have a bus to catch," she said vaguely, spinning around in place as she searched for her shoulder bag. She found it under Min's jacket. "Thanks for helping out, Erik. By the way, what's your favorite food?"

"Food?" he said vaguely, keeping his eyes from settling on _any_ part of her anatomy.

"Yeah. Food. Nourishment. People sustenance. What's your fave?"

Only wanting her to stop talking at him, he said the first thing that popped into his head as he stared at the wall behind Christine, "Chicken."

"What kind of-"

"Any kind," he said immediately, refusing to allow his eyes to roam further than the kitchen wall. "Hurry before you're late."

"Oh. Well, that makes it easier," she replied slowly, and turned around to look behind her, wondering what he had been drinking last night. "Uh, thanks again."

He could only nod, as she gave Min a quick kiss and headed for the door. "Wish me luck!" and was gone.

Min glanced up from her bowl as Erik sat down heavily on a chair. "Want some cereal?" He said nothing, simply stared unseeing at the chipped sugar bowl in the center of the table, as though it held all of the answers to life's best kept secrets.

"Erik?"

He blinked, and blinked again, as the room swam back into focus. He cocked his head at her. "Did you say something?"

"Are you okay?" she inquired. "You look like you just saw a ghost. I know, cause I just watched some ghosts on Goosebumps. Next time it's on we can watch it together."

He mentally shook himself. Ridiculous. He didn't know her. Christine was one of those people who blew into his life for a while, and eventually tumbled back out of it. No one ever lingered very long around him. He couldn't even say he really liked her all that much.

He took a deep, expansive breath, and smiled at the little girl. "I would like that. Now, finish your breakfast. It's nearly time for the bus." Min nodded, her hair done up in short pigtails, the baby fine hair sticking out every which way, and Erik reached over, giving one a light tug. "Don't forget your backpack."

She skipped beside him out to the curb. While they waited, she slipped her small hand into his and looked up at him. "You won't leave us like Nadir did, will ya, Erik?" she asked him quietly, her little face solemn. "Mom was sad."

 _Damn you, Khan._

"I'm not planning on going anywhere, Araminta," gently squeezing her hand. "Here is your bus."

She climbed the steps, but turned back to him. "See you later?"

Their first show was tomorrow night, and he would be busy preparing for it, but unhesitatingly, he found himself replying, "Yes."

Satisfied, she left him standing there, the bus leaving the curb in a billowing cloud of diesel fumes.

He went slowly up the steps to their apartment, determined to put thoughts of Christine out of his mind, wondering if he had time to install the graphics card in Araminta's computer before leaving for the club.

* * *

She returned home a little after noon and practically danced up the stairs to their apartment. She had a whole chicken to roast and all the trimmings for their celebratory dinner. She switched on the fan in the living room and opened the windows for a bit of breeze, swiping hair off of her forehead. The day was a warm one. She changed into a pair of shorts and a white tank, and spent the next few hours getting some cleaning done. She hesitated outside Erik's door, her only intention to change the sheets on his bed.

Deciding quickly, Christine entered his room and went straight for the bed, only pausing to check out his reading material, always a dead giveaway to a person's interests. She squinted at the titles of the neatly stacked paperbacks; along with the works of Shakespeare, there now resided a well thumbed collection of stories by Issac Asimov and a much newer one by N.K. Jemison called the Obelisk Gate.

"I'll bet Mr. Girard is a dyed-in-the-wool Trekkie," she cackled.

Hurriedly, she removed the sheets and turned to leave, when her eyes spied something red and lacy on top of the desk chair. "Not Erik's. He wouldn't be caught dead in red," she muttered, her lips disappearing as her mouth compressed into a thin hard line. "Poker, my ass," she hissed, picking up the thong bikini with the very tips of her fingers and grimly studying it. "More like the _strip_ variety."

 _Wonder what she's wearin' now?_

She put the panties back where she found them, and left the room, slamming the door behind her. She gulped several lungfuls of air and trudged down to the laundry with her load of sheets and started her wash, before trudging back up two flights of stairs to wrestle the vacuum out of the hall closet. She didn't want to look too closely at her reaction to Erik's panty raid.

She was successful all of five minutes.

Why should she care what Girard did? None of her business if he screwed his way around the entire band if that's his thing. He was decent enough with her and seemed to be fond of Min, so really, what right did she have to get upset?

"None," she said quietly. "Nada. Zippo. Nope."

Thing was, Erik didn't seem the type to casually sleep around. She had to grudgingly admit that he was a thoughtful man and more intelligent than the average guy. In fact, he was a little too laid back sometimes...seeming to retreat from situations where he refused to get upset, as in the purse snatching incident. It still rankled. It hadn't only been the little bit of cash she had. It was the phone calls to the credit card companies to report the theft, as well as the DMV to replace her driver's license. All of it damned inconvenient. Not that she had expected him to charge in against a knife wielding thug and get her wallet back, but a little healthy anger from him would have been welcome. Someone to empathize with, would have helped her a lot.

He didn't strike her as a shrinking violet either.

She threw her hands in the air and plugged in the vacuum. "He's still getting his chicken dinner whether he wants it or not," she muttered to Scooby Doo, as she passed by him with the sweeper. "Even if I have to _shove_ it down that skinny throat of his!"

* * *

The table set and dinner nearly ready, Christine stood in front of her closet deciding on a change of clothes. Becoming disgusted with herself for considering what would get a certain musician's attention, she stubbornly dressed in a pair of baggy jeans, but contrarily added a bright red shirt. Make what you will out of the red, Girard, she thought peevishly.

She rolled her eyes when Min walked by her and sniffed delicately. "You smell nice. Are we going out?"

"Going out? No, we're not going out," Christine said, feeling a touch defensive. "Honestly, why is it so wrong to dab on a little perfume while it's still daylight?"

"Geez. I didn't know it was," Min returned impertinently as she fed her gerbil tiny pieces of apple. "Is it okay if I say the chicken smells good too?"

"Are you getting smart with me, young lady?"

"Uh uh."

"Good," Christine said, her mood as yet ebullient over her new job. She would start on Monday, so getting to crow a little over her good fortune after the things she'd been dealing with, was exactly what the doctor ordered.

She sidled over to Min who was sitting with Scooby in her lap, and slipped an arm around her. "In honor of your mother's new job, I am willing to make you a hot fudge sundae for dessert. What do you say?"

"With whipped cream, nuts, and a cherry on top?" her eyes shining hopefully up at her mother.

"Yup. And a cherry for Scooby Doo, too!" and they both laughed.

They had held off until seven, waiting for Erik to get home, but finally too hungry to put dinner off any longer, Christine and Min sat down to eat. They both took turns glancing at the empty place setting, Min disappointed, and Christine feeling a return of her inappropriate anger. She knew... _knew_ that she had no right to be possessive of Erik Girard _or_ interested in his whereabouts, but that didn't help to change the way she felt. And it depressed her.

 _You can't be that needy for a man, Christine._ _You are g_ _iving them up as a bad job._

 _Remember?_

 _Right?_

 _Hello?_

 _Christine!_

 ** _Right?_**

 _Right._

She abruptly stood up and began clearing the dishes off of the table, and made a big show of preparing the sundaes. She was on her second cup of coffee, Min on her second bowl of ice cream, when the door opened and Erik walked in.

A very tired Erik.

Christine gave him the once over, curious as to what had made him appear to be sleep walking.

On second thought.

 _Don't go there!_

Pulling an all nighter plus the work at the club today, had left him longing for an early night which he couldn't indulge just yet. He still had to get the girl's computer up and running. He had stopped working on it this morning having needed a better power supply for the new card, and that set him back another forty dollars. To add to his work load, he had just come from Mrs. Turley's, promising to begin scraping paint in the downstairs hall early next week.

"Hi, Erik! We tried waiting for you, but Mom got hungry," Min said succinctly. "It's your favrit too."

"My favorite?" He looked at her suspiciously. He didn't have a favorite _anything._ Where did she get that idea?

"Yep. Chicken."

"I do not recall telling anyone that."

Christine stood up from the table and gestured to the remains of the roast chicken. "Yes, you did. This morning," she said shortly, carrying her coffee mug to the sink. She said over her shoulder, "Help yourself if you're hungry."

"No. Thank you. I ate a late lunch," he replied, just as abruptly, starting past them with his bag from Radio Shack.

"Darla owe you a meal?"

He stopped dead and turned back toward Christine. He studied her, wanting to assure himself that what he had felt that morning was a fluke. It wasn't. Even with her hair stuck in a messy bun, her slight curves covered by a pair of jeans one size too big for her, his heart reminded him that she could make it beat just that much faster.

Hell. A lot faster.

The knowledge did anything but please him.

He took it out on her.

"And what if the answer was yes, Christine? Hm? Do you consider _my_ business to be your own?"

Christine said nothing to him, instead picking up Min's empty sundae bowl, the little girl sitting there quietly. "Go on and take your bath, honey, and then you can watch some television."

Min and her queasy stomach got up from the table. She glanced from her mother to a motionless Erik, and decided the best place for her was far away from them.

"Well?" and he lowered his voice, not wishing to upset the girl. "Follow me down the rabbit hole, if you will," he said slowly, as though having a conversation with the mentally challenged. "We share an apartment. That is all." He finally began moving again, gripping the plastic bag a little tighter in one fist. "I trust you will remember that in future?"

His voice held an altogether new timbre in it that surprised her even as it made her uneasy. It was low and dangerous, sliding across her nerve receptors like the soft purr of a big cat, all sharp claws and pointy teeth.

He hadn't waited for a reply, but headed straight for his room. With the quiet snick of the door, she sank into her chair again and stared at the left-over food. She had never been very good with relationships. Especially men. She was heartily ashamed of her proprietary air with Erik. No wonder he was disgusted with her.

Well...no more.

She would be pleasant, but keep her distance. He was right of course. They shared a living space, not a bond, and as long as the present circumstances continued, she would remember that. Civilized and coolly polite. She didn't need any complications after having just gone through a break-up she hadn't seen coming. Or had she? Nadir had become distant in the last few weeks before he left for Miami, and she hadn't really minded, if she was being honest with herself. Christine had hoped that the trip to Florida would clear the air between them, maybe reestablish them as an affectionate couple.

She sat up straighter in the chair. Affection wasn't the same as love. Was it? It wasn't all that long since Nadir had left, and yet she didn't feel anymore as if her life had suddenly derailed. In fact, in the past few days, she hadn't thought of him at all.

Once again she considered the possibility that there was something wrong with her. Jumping in and out of relationships was not the sign of a healthy, well rounded individual.

She would have to work on that.

Christine got up and began clearing the table, ready to put her new and improved model into practice. Girard wouldn't know what had happened to that other bitch.

* * *

The tapping intruded on his ear drums, his eyes reluctantly fluttering open. They were grainy and red-rimmed, and he would swear they had only been closed for a moment. In reality, he had slept solidly for one hour after the innards of the comp continually blurred on him, resembling little more than the insides of R2-D2- the beeping little droid with the beeping bad attitude.

Him and Christine.

Very bad attitudes.

His eyes slipped shut over scratchy lids. The tapping came again, this time a little more insistent. A hand reached out, skittering across the desk top for the mask, his fingers looking very much like the long flimsy legs of a spider as it crept about, blindly searching for the white cloth. Snagging it, he covered his face and pushed himself upright. Staggering to the door, he yanked it open.

"Erik?"

"No, I did not have lunch with Darla... _Carla,_ so don't ask me to go into any details. If you wish to know anything more about _her_ day and where she ate, what she ate, and what she wore to accomplish it, I'm sure I can obtain her phone number for you," he sneered. "Just be careful, Christine. The devil is in the details."

"Min's sick," she replied quickly before he could take a breath, not quite managing to keep the worry out of her voice.

Wide awake now, he pushed a lock of inky hair out of his eyes and stepped into the hallway. "Well, why didn't you say so?" he snapped impatiently. "What's wrong with her?"

"She says her stomach hurts and she feels like throwing up. Do you have any Pepto-Bismol? Something to soothe her tummy?"

He took off for her bedroom, Christine on his heels. Min was lying longways on the bed, curled in a ball and whimpering softly.

Erik sat down carefully on the edge of the bed and looked her over. "Araminta? Do you have any sharp pains in your stomach?"

"No," she managed to whisper. "It aches. I feel like I did last year on the Kiddie Coaster. My belly is swoopin'."

"When did this begin?"

"Right after I finished my second hot fudge sundae," she said on a sigh. "I'll never eat ice cream again. Long as I live."

Against his will, Erik's mouth was tugged into a lopsided smile. "That is a very long time, child." His smile vanished as he looked up at Christine who stood beside him wringing her hands.

"Min hardly ever gets sick, especially on ice cream. She has a cast iron stomach. I don't know what to make of it. D-Do you?"

"Yes, I know exactly what is wrong with her," he grimly replied.

"What?"

"You."

" _Me_?"

He had risen to his feet, and she followed him out of the room and back into his. "Yes, Christine. God save all the little children who rely on their much smarter parents to know when to say, _enough._ For the lack of that one word, civilizations have crumbled."

He picked up his violin and went back to her bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed again, having Min turn over on her back. He placed his hand lightly on her stomach and gently massaged it in slow, gentle circles, before glancing up at Christine. "You take over, just like this," he instructed her.

He tucked the violin beneath his chin and began to play. Five minutes in, Christine glanced down at Min. The girl's mouth was slightly open, her respiration shallow and careful as only those feeling slightly better will do, as if afraid of jinxing their gradual return to wellness.

"How do you feel, Minnie?" Christine whispered anxiously in the tones of someone in a sickroom.

"Better," she breathed. "Don't stop playin', Erik. 'kay?"

"Your wish is my command," he said softly, his clever fingers perfectly at home on the well loved instrument, as he held one finger down on the D and A strings simultaneously for a double-stop. He slid the bow with uncanny skill, producing a sound of such melting sweetness, that Christine caught herself on a happy sigh at this impromptu violin recital. He performed so effortlessly that it appeared as natural a function for him as eating and sleeping would be to the rest of the world.

"That's beautiful. So lush. What is it?" she asked in a hushed voice.

"It is called Lullaby for Natalie, but with all due respect, I think with a change of some notes and the timbre of the piece, we shall rename it for Araminta," as he added a vibrato to the melody line. The tiny fluctuations in pitch made the sound more expressive and even richer than the original, as he pressed his fingers to the neck of the violin and held them there.

She watched the motion of his hands, their movements nearly hypnotic. She sneaked a peek at his masked face, noting his closed eyes as he wove the three of them into a dreaming state of mind; one that was light and peace and magical.

You're a very fine violinist, Erik. I hope you know that."

He merely dipped his head in acknowledgment, and kept on playing, seamlessly beginning the soothing melody over again. Christine's own eyes were getting heavy. She sat up and stretched, then grabbed the large gold comforter at the foot of the bed, spreading it over a sleeping Min. She had rolled over on her side, and was now snoring softly, sounding like a little bumblebee.

She watched her daughter for a few minutes. "Thank you," she said, voice low, her eyes never leaving Min. "I think we've been at loggerheads for far too long. I-I know most of it is my fault. I'm far too opinionated for one thing, but I'm usually not so bitchy. I swear I'm not!" her voice rising before she lowered it again. "You've been so decent about everything...you're actually a pretty nice guy. I hope we can start over again, and I promise to-"

The music had stopped. Christine looked up in surprise, hearing a faint exhalation of breath.

"Oh!" and covered her mouth with one hand before the giggle could escape. He lay slumped against her pillow, one hand holding the neck of the violin close to his chest, his mouth slightly open as a soft snore left it. She looked from him to her daughter. At least they were in tune.

"Out of the mouths of babes," she whispered.


	7. Bated Breath

Christine awoke to the sound of her daughter's laughter quickly stifled, drifting through her closed door. She pulled her head out of the mound of pillows and sniffed. Fresh coffee? She sat up and sniffed again.

Bacon.

Curious, she slipped out of bed and padded down the short hallway to where the sounds were coming from. The door of Erik's room was wide open, revealing a pajama clad Min sitting at her computer. Their masked roommate, holding a coffee mug and wearing his usual lack of color, stood behind her.

"Good morning," she croaked.

They both turned as one, Min smiling in delight, Erik studying Christine with guarded interest. "Mom, come see what Erik did with my computer! He gave it a new gravity card and it's super fast! Come see!"

"I will, Min, just give mother a minute to wake up," she muttered, shuffling off to the bathroom to wash. As she brushed her teeth, she pondered the heady knowledge that she, Christine Daae de Chagny, had a man cooking her breakfast and she didn't have to pay for it. Her mouth full of toothpaste, she grinned at her reflection. "Enjoy it while it lasts, kiddo."

She went out to the kitchen for her first cup of coffee and found Erik at the stove, turning strips of bacon with a fork, the delectable fat sizzling and popping in the pan.

"It's what I always dreamed about," she said to his thin back, her voice full of wonder.

"It's only bacon, Christine," he answered, not bothering to turn around.

She shook her head. "Not the bacon. A man standing there and cooking it! I thought I'd never see the day. Can I help?"

"Plates and cutlery, if you don't mind," gesturing to the table. "I seem to be remiss, but I never asked if you got the job."

"You're forgiven. A tummy ache always takes precedence over minor concerns such as livelihoods, but, yes I did."

"Singing?"

She looked down at her bare feet and wriggled her toes. "Um... no. There are no openings in the chorus right now, but Mrs. Giry put in a good word for a position with the cleaning crew working the day shift. Antoinette is one of the senior cleaning staff," she explained. "It's only four days a week, but the pay's not bad, and I can at least be home for Min."

"You should be singing, Christine. Not scrubbing. Your voice is good, if under-sung."

She snorted. "Under-sung? It's not been sung at all!" But his attitude irritated her a little. "I wish I did have the opportunity to keep looking for something better, but I have a daughter to feed and clothe. A fact you wouldn't understand, so shitty jobs are not out of the question for me."

Erik turned around then and met her eyes. "I meant no disrespect," he said quietly. "Of course your daughter comes first." He shrugged. "I've had my fair share of menial jobs."

"Such as?"

"Among others...I worked my sixteenth year emptying septic tanks," and nodded at Christine's snort. "It's true. My father insisted that I experience unskilled labor to keep me out of..." He hesitated just a fraction, which Christine was quick to note. "I-it kept me busy. Yes, ma'am...that was the ultimate, how did you put it? _Shitty_ job. And then there was Wacky Jack's Singing Telegrams and Balloons."

She nearly sprayed coffee across the kitchen, but managed to keep it and the laugh in. "Let me get this straight. You went door to door warbling for someone's birthday, or...or new job?"

"That's right. In a costume chosen by the customer. My absolute favorite was the Grim Reaper on Halloween."

"What was the worst?"

"The Tooth Fairy. They terminated my employment after that one."

"Why?"

"I was too scary."

"Aww. Poor, Erik," her eyes brimming with laughter. "You can sing for me anytime."

"You don't mean that," he replied, amused.

"Nope," she agreed, allowing herself to relax as she leaned against the counter and sipped her coffee, as yet, admiring his obvious familiarity with the workings of a kitchen. "Smells good. All this time you could cook," she accused him. "And your coffee ain't bad either."

"You haven't tasted my eggs yet," he returned mildly. "Better for you to reserve judgment."

"Did Min put you up to this?"

"Your daughter is a starving zombie hunter and needs sustenance."

Christine chuckled. "I'll take that as a yes."

"I don't mind." He eyed this new Christine with a healthy bit of skepticism.

She was nice.

Smiling.

He needed to watch himself.

Meanwhile, he would listen with his customary attentiveness. He found it wasn't hard to do.

"That game froze up every time she tried to play it before. What did you do to get it working? Min said a _gravity_ card?"

He put the crisp bacon on a plate covered in paper towels and reached for the carton of eggs. "It is a graphics card, and gives her computer a new lease on life."

"Thank you, Erik. I'll pay you back as soon as I'm able."

He listened curiously to the sound of her soft voice, so unlike the shrill, angry woman he first heard that rainy afternoon which now seemed so long ago. She of the watery blue eye. "You're welcome, although I did the work with no intention of demanding payment. You owe me nothing."

She looked very young standing there, her face free of makeup, and her habitual scowl missing. Such a little thing, barely reaching his shoulder, but if he were to bend down and...

He took a slight step backward, dropping his eyes from hers, feeling slightly off kilter. "May I ask you a question?"

"Yes," her pulse picking up speed.

"How do you like your eggs?"

"Cooked," she grinned, a dimple suddenly appearing in one cheek, and Erik nearly groaned aloud.

"Scrambled, it is," he decided.

She in turn was charmed by his answering smile. It no longer appeared quite so strange to her. She must be getting used to him.

After watching her blood thirsty daughter blow the heads off of an army of the undead, the three of them sat at the table and had breakfast. Searching for something to say, Christine politely inquired if he slept well the night before.

 _After_ she steered him back to his own room.

He shrugged. "As well as I ever sleep. Five hours a night usually does me. The night before I didn't get any at all."

"That's how you paid for Min's computer? Your winnings from the poker game?"

Erik nodded. "You could say that I split it down the middle with her," he answered deadpan, winking at Min.

"Will you teach me to play poker someday?" she asked him.

"So you can fleece me of my money?"

"How come you never asked _me_?" Christine demanded. "I can play poker too!"

"You never have any money, so you can't be very good," her daughter said shrewdly.

Erik nearly choked on his coffee. "She has a point."

Christine observed her daughter as she ate her breakfast. "I'm happy to see you feeling more like your snotty old self, Min."

Erik pushed his plate away and sat back. "You must learn to guard your tongue, Christine. After I teach your daughter to play poker, she'll probably go on the professional circuit, make a killing, and support her mother in style. But only if you do everything she says."

"I'll have to remember that," she said dryly, "although I'll consider myself content if she never gets sick again."

"So will I. Ice cream is a dish best eaten in small quantities. Not half a gallon at a time."

Min dumped more ketchup on her eggs. "At least I had a song played just for me. It was worth it."

Her mother rolled her eyes, and said in a weary tone, "You are so very young."

Erik rose to his feet and took his plate to the sink, Christine's eyes following him. "What are you doing today?"

He turned his wrist over and glanced at his watch, Christine noting that it was on his right one. "If I don't get moving I won't get any scraping done in the downstairs hallway before I leave for the club."

"I didn't realize you were a leftie," she said, spreading marmalade on her toast. "My dad was one too."

His mouth turned up slightly. "Very nice non sequitur, de Chagny. Very nice. Actually, I am what is considered ambidextrous. I can use left and right equally well. I merely prefer the watch on my right wrist."

"You must play a mean keyboard, in that case," she said, her respect for him climbing another notch.

"It certainly helps with those pesky power chords," he answered straight faced.

"The three P's," she quipped, enjoying this morning with Erik more than she would have thought possible. Another plus: someone besides herself made breakfast.

"Hey! Can you collect the mail before you come back up?"

"Consider it done."

"Will you be late tonight?" she asked casually. "I can fix dinner for three as well as two."

"Tonight is my first show with the band."

Erik looked up when someone began rapping impatiently on the door, followed by a woman's amused voice.

"Let me in! I have donuts and your paper!"

"Aunt Lou!" Min squealed, and ran to the door.

"Puddin'! My God...look how you've grown! You're almost as tall as me," she teased the diminutive girl. "What is your mother feeding you?" She handed Min the donut box and straightened to her five feet eight inches, her gaze falling on the man who was watching her curiously.

"You must be Erik. I'm Christine's best dressed, best loved, and brightest friend," she said, stepping forward, her hand held out.

"You forgot modest, Sorelli," Christine said with a grin.

"That too," Louise added demurely, as her hand was swallowed in his cool one. "Nice to meet a man taller than me for a change," as she smiled up at her friend's roommate. "Doesn't happen that often. Am I interrupting anything?"

"Nope. Just finished breakfast. Erik made it," Christine stated proudly. "Want some coffee?"

"Sure." She looked around the apartment. Still looked the same, with one noticeable difference. And it was quite a tall one.

Definitely not Christine's type.

"You work at LipSync, don't you?" she said to Erik, who hovered uncertainly near the door. "How do you like it?"

"I'll let you know after tonight. It's my first show."

"Where was your last gig? Maybe I know it."

"Only if you are familiar with The Rocket Club in Philadelphia."

"As in Pennsylvania? Never been to Philly, but I have an aunt who lives in Mt. Airy." Louise turned to Christine as she handed her a mug of coffee. "Hey! Why don't we make an evening of it at LipSync? Erik here can use the support. Right, Erik?"

"Of course. I had every intention of asking Christine if she would like to come. I extend that to you as well, Ms. Sorelli. Just give them your names. Look for a man called Wreck-It Ralph near center stage."

"Who or _what_ is a Wreck-It Ralph?" Christine asked him. Throwing caution to the wind, she took a huge bite of cream donut. It was her favorite.

"A very large, very determined bouncer."

"Call me Louise. We don't stand on ceremony around here." She turned to her friend. "What do you say, Chris?"

She shook her head. "I have no one to watch Min."

Louise wasn't fazed even a bit. "Giry can do it. Or I should say Antoinette. Meg can barely tie her pointe shoes, let alone take care of a kid. Min likes it with Antoinette. Don't you, puddin'?"

"Uh huh. She lets me play with her dog, and she makes pizza." Min approached her mother, wrapping her arms around Christine's waist. "Can I, Mom?" she wheedled, gazing up at her with innocent blue eyes.

"I guess so, but first we have to see if Antoinette has other plans," she said, kissing the top of her daughter's head. "Get dressed, honey then you can play some more."

"They hardly ever go out on the weekends, but I'll give her a call just in case," Louise promised.

"Well then, hopefully I will see you both later," Erik said, yellow eyes lingering on Christine before heading out the door.

She settled in with a second cup of coffee, and was reaching for the front section of the newspaper, when Sorelli neatly scooped it up. "Geez, but you're a piece of work, Louise!" giving her friend a dirty look before grabbing what was left, and skimming the back pages. A small article in the police blotter section caught her eye. "There's a perv in our neighborhood the cops want to catch."

"Oh yeah? What's one more? This city is full of 'em."

"This one likes to expose himself to women of all ages, even the little ones."

"Bastard. That could ruin a kid for life seeing something like that before they actually know what _it_ is. I remember how traumatized I was."

Christine glanced up from her paper. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Ben Arthur."

"And who's Ben Arthur?"

"The first guy to get a home run with me." Louise narrowed her eyes at a sudden thought. "You know, men seem awfully fond of that part of their anatomy. Ever notice all the objects they build that resemble a penis?"

"Uh...can't say I have."

Louise studied her friend a little too long for Christine's comfort. "What? Do I have cream on my nose?"

"He's interesting."

"Who? Ben Arthur?"

"Erik," Sorelli purred.

"In what way?"

"Oh, I don't know. That mask maybe? How about his height? Or that absolutely knockout voice of his?"

"It is beautiful, isn't it? But I also enjoy some of the stuff he tells us. Or rather Min," she amended hastily. "He's a walkin' Wikipedia. I think he's a good influence on her."

"You actually pay attention to what he _says_? I got damp just listening to him talk! Doesn't matter if he was stringing actual words together. How the hell does all that lusciousness come from that skinny chest? Better yet... how do you stand it without tackling him and sticking your tongue down his throat?"

"It never did take much to get _your_ motor running," Christine jeered. You just met him, for God's sake, and if it took _me_ a while to get used to him, I can't imagine you being much different."

"Not yet, but I might work my way up to it."

"Are we talking about Erik? You know, the guy you said makes your eyeballs ache?"

"Do you always have to throw my words back at me, Daae?"

"It's not Daae anymore! How many times do I have to tell you that?"

"Well, it's not really de Chagny either, Christine."

"Should I tell Erik you're gunning for him?"

"Getting along a lot better, I see," Sorelli said archly. "I guess it's not rocket science. He's polite without sucking up...you know...gentlemanly. He cooks. That there is a _huge_ plus." She glanced around the kitchen at the greasy stove, her eyes coming back to the dirty dishes littering the table and counter. "Have to work a bit on the clean-up part, seeing as how he cooked and ran, but he is kinda cute in a sinister Friday the Thirteenth sort of way."

"Yeah, don't forget the Adam's Family," Christine said with disgust. "A cross between Lurch and Gomez." She waved an irate finger under Louise's nose. "You have a lot of nerve coming in here and making fun of _my_ roommate!"

Louise snorted. "Throw in some Uncle Fester while you're at it. Geez, Christine! You're a pistol when you get wound up!"

She wasn't done yet. "What happened to your former male ideal, huh? The broad shoulders and rippin' muscles...those hot glances and chiseled looks? Not seein' any of that in Erik, Lou. Nope. Uh uh."

"Will you _shut_ it? I didn't say I was interested that way! Besides, you're describing _you_ , not me." Louise chewed on a thumbnail. "Although...come to think of it...

"Why not?"

"You can't be serious! You don't even know him."

She shrugged. "Neither do you for that matter. Can you tell me anything about him? Like...where's he from?"

"How the hell would I know? I never asked him and he never said," Christine retorted. "I don't pry like _some_ people!"

Sorelli ignored that last part. "See? I could probably learn more about him in five minutes than you could in five months!"

Christine had seen that look before in seventh grade when Louise wanted the seat next to the cutest boy in class. And got it. And now, one glance between the two women, and naturally any man would choose her tall willowy dancer friend over her. The male eye is always drawn to the tallest female in the room. Something to do with those long legs and where they could wrap themselves. It was some sort of natural law. She often thought that Mother Nature would look a lot like Sorelli, only not as much make-up. Mother Nature being an earth girl and all.

She would never admit to Louise that _she_ had covertly studied Erik and come to the same conclusion long before her friend did. If he wasn't wearing a mask, or built like a toothpick; if he didn't seem to loom over everyone and everything like Dr. Doom, well, he might be considered kind of cute.

In a morbid sort of way.

Which was now causing Christine to be slightly miffed at her friend for realizing the same thing. She looked Louise up and down with a critical eye. "Camel-toe pants today, Sorelli? Who are you trying to impress, or should I know him? You did say you wanted to give Erik the once over," chuffing out an annoyed breath. "I didn't realize you wanted him to check _you_ out!"

"Meow! You really do need to stop with the crass remarks, Daae. Your green is showing."

Min skipped out to the kitchen, innocent of the staring war now raging between the two friends. "Wanna come see my zombie score? I think it's a record!"

"Yes," both women replied at the same time.

Christine broke eye contact first, and smiled at her daughter. "Be right there, Minnie," and turned back to Louise. "Just answer the question, Sorelli," she hissed.

Louise tried to hold in a laugh, but failed. "If you could see yourself! You and a tomato have a lot in common right about now, and I'm really beginning to wonder about you. You fancy him a little don't you, Christine? Come on, say it. Just between you and me."

"Don't be silly. I don't care if you do go after him, so help yourself."

"Okay. I will."

"Fine."

"Fine."

They went to the bedroom to see Min's score. "My daughter the zombie hunter," Christine boasted. "You've made mommy so proud!"

"Well, if they ever show up at your door she'll know exactly what to do with 'em," Sorelli teased, pulling a face when Min splattered five of them with the biggest gun she'd ever seen, and blood ran in runnels down any immovable object. "Whatever happened to that Barbie game I got for you?"

Christine waved a hand. "Too much pink and nothing to shoot," she said with amusement.

Louise glanced curiously around the room. "He _is_ neater than you." She dubiously regarded the princess bed. "He actually sleeps on that thing? God almighty, Christine, the man has got to be at least six five! Are you _sure_ he's not stretched out in someone else's bed?"

Christine thought of the night before, and Erik falling asleep on hers. She would in no way tell Louise about that. "So um... _were_ you serious about going after Erik?"

"Nah." Sorelli grinned victoriously. "I was just yankin' your chain."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Louise?"

"What?"

"I hate you."

"I know, pumpkin. I know."

* * *

"Will you get a load of this place!" Louise marveled. "It's fantastic! They did a super job with the renovation. And look...those lights match your dress."

Which was true. Her short chiffon dress was a deep purple with lace cap sleeves and a grape satin ribbon belt. It was dainty and feminine, and she always felt pretty wearing it. Louise looked slinky and dangerous in a fringed, gold metallic dress and gold T-strap heels.

"It's a damned good thing we got here early. This place is packed!" Christine said, as she stared at the black, red, and purple décor. The pub table where they sat was purple plexiglass, the plush bar stools done in red velvet. A horseshoe shaped bar was made from clear plexiglass, with LED lighting changing from red to purple beneath the bar counter. The Ladies was the same, with an added novelty; the long mirror above the rose marble sinks was one-way, and patrons could stand there washing or primping, and look out on the dance floor one level down.

It was all eclectic and fun, and Christine was glad she had come tonight. She was tired of feeling depressed and weepy.

Louise tossed back her Manhattan on ice and stood up. "We need to get going."

A young woman in a very short, very tight skirt approached their table carrying two more drinks and set them down on their table.

"We didn't order these," Christine protested.

"Compliments of the House," the red head replied with a pleasant smile. "Enjoy your evening."

Christine stood up with her white wine. "It's Erik," she stated firmly. "Either he wants us drunk enough to forget the evening or he's hoping to buy a friendly face. Come on, let's get as close to the stage as we can."

"Maybe he did it because he's...I dunno...a nice guy, maybe?"

"He wasn't so nice when he came back to the apartment this afternoon."

"What do you mean?"

Christine shrugged. "Just that. He brought the mail in and practically slammed it on the table. He didn't say two words to me or Min between the time he showered and left for the club."

"What was he doing before that? Something squicky, I'll bet. It put him in a bad mood."

"Stripping old paint. And it's not squicky, Ms. Hang Fire! Just because _you_ defer physical labor doesn't mean everybody else does. Lots of people enjoy painting...it's very relaxing. Although, I can't see Girard doing anything so mundane and getting a thrill out of it."

You're a total cynic, ya know that Christine?"

"So I've been told."

"By who?"

"Erik."

They wended their way to the front, and headed for a relatively open space near center stage. A large muscular man wearing a suit that must have taken twelve yards of material to fit over his height and girth, was the only one taking up that space, and he watched them as they wove through the crowd.

They glanced at each other, and Louise said out of the side of her mouth, "Wreck-It Ralph."

"Can I have your names, ladies?" he asked them in a gravelly voice, one side of his bald head displaying a tattoo of a wrecking ball, a half naked brunette riding astride it, her slender legs wrapped provocatively around the large chain.

Christine gave him their names, the man nodding and lumbering away. "Enjoy the show."

"Erik doesn't _own_ this joint, does he?" Louise asked, her eyes observing nearly shoulder to shoulder patrons and racking up the take for just one night.

"I don't think so. But if he does, he can afford to buy himself a new bed."

The crowd had begun to move restlessly, when black lights saturated the audience in a glow emanating from everywhere. Red and purple up lights shone on the stage, showcasing a large pair of red lips above the scenic backdrop of the city skyline.

People immediately began to sway as the raucous first notes were heard from the electric guitar of Reggie Accosta. A hush fell over the club when a tall dark figure glided up to the front of the stage, mic in hand, and began to sing-

 _"I tear my heart open,_

 _I sew myself shut._

 _My weakness is that I care too much."_

The song was Scars.

He had their attention.

The place had become deathly still as Erik's voice hypnotized and ensnared. Christine couldn't tear her eyes away from his lean form, dressed in his trademark black- with a catch. He wore body hugging leather trousers, and she couldn't have looked away even if someone yelled _fire!_ Her inevitable journey started with ebony boots and climbed up impossibly long legs.

Her face flamed as she lingered slightly on his crotch and the soft swell of genitalia in the snug leather, before dragging her eyes away and continuing up his whipcord length to a trim waist. A black shirt molded to his torso, the long sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing tattoos on each wiry forearm. She eyed them curiously, for she hadn't known of any tats, but try though she might, couldn't make out the details. She took in the black leather cuff bracelets on both of his thin wrists, before finally reaching their ultimate destination. And when she did...

...he was staring at her.

Singing to her.

"Shit," Louise whispered. " _Look_ at him! He's off the charts awesome! Where's he been hiding? His voice. My God... his voice is so damned good!"

"Yeah," Christine breathed. She followed Erik's moves, his classic rocker stance, legs braced wide apart, long fingers wrapped around the mic. He was swaying rhythmically from side to side, rolling his hips and bouncing on the balls of his feet, his entire body conveying a story, pouring solid emotion into the impassioned lyrics. He took off in a long fluid stride across the stage, leaning forward at times in an aggressive way, his eyes raking the crowd, his voice managing to sound seductive even as the melancholy words were shouted in an angry condemning tenor. She was almost certain it wasn't an act either- he was furious, and her mind drifted back to this afternoon and his sullen mood.

"Damn." Sorelli leaned over and spoke directly in her ear, never taking her eyes off of the figure onstage. "What do you think of him now?"

Christine could only stare.

The band was good.

Just not as good as he was.

She chanced a quick look around at the spellbound crowd, many of them mouthing the words along with Erik, a few dancing in the little room that was available. Most simply watched and listened, blown away by his riveting performance. She observed him just as closely, the song nearing its end.

" _I tear my heart open_

 _I sew myself shut_

 _My weakness is that_

 _I care too much_

 _Our scars remind us that the past is real._

 _I tear my heart open_

 _Just to feel."_

Erik bowed, his body bent nearly in half, as the club erupted into applause, whistles, and calls for more. When he straightened up, he looked Christine's way again, before dipping his head in acknowledgment, the wings of his hair keeping his face hidden.

From a distance, no one was any wiser that the man of the hour wore a mask.

She shouted, clapped, and whistled along with everyone else. She looked around her, the words on the tip of her tongue. _He's my roommate. He comes home_ _to_ _me._

The next pick was The House of the Rising Sun, Erik once again exhibiting his extraordinary talent and showmanship. This time he was behind the keyboard, his fingers stabbing the keys, the lush organ chords emerging dark and moody and delicious. He growled the lyrics, _howled_ them, in a voice powerful and raw with emotion. His head was thrown back, the tendons in his neck standing out in stark relief, his performance raising the fine hairs on Christine's body. In that moment, she fervently believed a place that blackened the souls of wayward boys truly existed.

 _"There is a house in New Orleans_

 _They call the Rising Sun_

 _And it's been! the ruin of many a poor boy_

 _And God I know I'm one."_

He made her believe.

Erik's speaking voice was a smooth baritone, but he had delivered his songs in a throaty tenor range, extending from bass low to an astounding soprano high. Heldentenor, she thought, a baratonal quality of dramatic tenor. He had amazing range, his voice giving her chills as it escalated from a deep rock-growl, scraping across her auditory senses, to a tender vibrant tenor, pure and crystalline in the upper reaches, making her want to weep.

His technique was astonishing. No trouble with tempo here; he sang with an incisive sense of rhythm; his vocal placement was so good, he was able to glide from one register to another with no problem. He had great musicality, his phrasing was subtle, delicate and sweet. Or energetic and slamming it home. He was able to catch the correct coloring and nuance for each word.

Christine squirmed a little in discomfort at the notion that it _was_ possible to become sexually aroused by his voice. Damn Sorelli for pointing it out.

The crowded floor was pure noise when he finished his song, cries for an encore being heard from more than one throat. And Christine and Louise joined right in, but Erik was gone from the stage, and she finally let her eyes wander in the next set. She studied the singer now up there, who had just begun a Katy Perry song. Her voice was mature and well rounded, but with too much strain on the higher notes, and not enough breath support.

Carla Giudicelli.

She elbowed Louise and nodded at the stage. "Remember her?" she shouted over the din.

"Yeah. She's good, damn her," Sorelli said mildly. There were more picks, notably the song, In the End from Linkin Park, Erik's voice harmonizing the hell out of the piece with the other singers, yet standing out, always a cut above. To her, it was like Josh Groban deciding to visit the local dive bar, and sing on karaoke night. When the number ended, the contestants came onstage and began performing their picks, the club's patrons egging them on, Christine and Louise included. The voting would commence after the last song.

Forty-five minutes in, Sorelli turned to her friend. "I'll be right back. I have to pee, but you get out there, girl and bust a move! You got the music to do it with."

"Bust a move, huh? Wouldn't I look sweet dancing alone like some friggin' wall flower?" she muttered forlornly. She glanced around self-consciously and spied a man standing nearby. Caught looking, he started to approach her when a mountain stepped in front of him, and hastily, he reversed course. Wreck-It Ralph had plowed through the crowd ringing the stage, carrying fresh drinks for the two women.

Christine accepted her glass of Chardonnay gratefully; her throat was dry from all the shouting. "Tell me, err, Wreck-It, is Erik making you trot out here with drinks?"

"Girard is okay," was all he said, and Christine rolled her eyes at Sorelli, who had just rejoined them. He turned and looked solemnly at Louise, "You seein' anyone?" examining her up and down with blatant interest.

"Uh, _yes_? S-Several someones, Mr. Wreck-It." Sorelli said politely.

"Got room for one more? And the name is Ralph," he muttered, sounding like he was gargling gravel.

"I'm afraid my dance card is full right now," Louise said, edging away from him.

"Didn't ask for one," he asserted, leaning closer to her.

"I _meant_ I can't take on any more gents at the moment," she supplied, moving further away.

"Shame," he said sadly. He turned to leave, when Christine had an inspiration. "Can you get us backstage, Ralph?"

"Why?"

"Well, to say hi to Erik."

He stood there a moment chewing this over, and Louise wondered whether his head was going to implode. At last, he shrugged. "Don't see why not," and turned, expecting them to follow as he parted people dumb enough to get in his way, moving like a...well, like a wrecking ball.

"That man must have one helluva grocery bill," Christine muttered.

"That man is lucky if he can string a whole sentence together."

"So what are you saying? We've finally found a man that's not your type?"

"He's not _anybody's_ type, Christine, and that's sayin' a lot coming from me. Hey, they're getting ready to vote!"

"I really don't think they need us, do you?"

"No, but if I _were_ voting it would be for Erik, hands down."

"He didn't lip sync any of that."

"Yeah, he sure as hell didn't, did he?"

They hurried to keep up with Ralph, following in his wake like baby ducklings following mama. One large assed mama. "My feet are killing me," Christine complained in a low voice to Louise. "Does he only have one speed?"

"It's his forward momentum. Hard for him to stop."

They approached a door where a cluster of women (and a few men) were grouped, their expressions by and large frustrated with the man standing in front of it blocking their way. Damon Ahlgren, another of the club's small security force, looked up as Ralph and the two women approached. "This lot ain't interested in no for an answer."

"Let me guess. Our new frontman," Ralph growled, his hard eyes surveying the women in their skimpy dresses and growing impatience.

"That'll be the one," Ahlgren replied mildly, gesturing to a dark haired girl who looked no more than sixteen. "And whadaya know? She says they're all _friends_ of his."

"Groupies," Ralph said with a snort.

"Groupies," the other man agreed. "Who ya got there?" indicating Christine and Louise.

Ralph barked a rusty laugh. "Friends of Girard. But legit, since they actually _know_ him," and pushed his way through Erik's new fans, who on seeing the two women going where they were denied entry, took issue with him.

"Hey! If we're not allowed back there, why are they?" an angry young woman exclaimed, and the group became even more agitated, hurling insults at Christine and Louise as well as the two bouncers.

"Uh oh, Chris. Looks like you might have to share your roommate with his adoring public," Sorelli said with a smirk.

"Just as long as they don't follow him home, and start lining up outside the apartment."

Ralph ran block while he ushered the two women through the door, and grinned at his friend. "Girard is about to turn this place on its fuckin' head."

"Yeah? Guess who's gonna want a raise?" Ahlgren replied, as he broke up Girard's disappointed followers.

Ralph jerked his large chin at the resentful crowd. "Thought that's what _they_ wanted to give him," and made an odd raspy sound which Louise decided was Wreck-it's version of a laugh.

He led the women into a narrow hall, and passed through another door at the far end of it, nearly running into a black girl with purple hair and tat sleeves. "Ya'll shouldn't be back here. Public's allowed in this area by invitation only," she drawled.

"None of your concern, Lloyd. They're with me to see Girard."

She looked them over, eyes narrowed. "They better hurry then," Purple Hair replied. "He's not hanging round after the shit storm he and Abba just had, and Erik kiss-my-ass Girard doesn't look like he's expecting two ratchets to show up."

"Watch who you're calling a ratchet, Barney," Louise growled.

Christine tried conciliatory. "Erik and I share an apartment, and we came back to congratulate him _and_ the band on some smokin' hot performances. Yours was very cool."

"Yeah, yeah. Personally I'm glad he's leaving, the lousy mood he's in. The louder the applause, the worse he got." She looked with appraising eyes at Christine. "Live together, huh? Don't envy you one little bit, although you might try puttin' him in a better mood. Know what I mean?" and started walking away. "Later, Ralph."

"Bitch," Christine spat to her back. "I _meant_ platonically."

"What's she know? His bed isn't big enough for _him_ let alone you," Louise said reasonably.

"Whose side are you on?" getting only a laugh from Sorelli.

They were in a bland white hallway, dressing rooms on both sides, and just ahead an open doorway.

Christine heard her before she even came into sight.

They entered a lounge area where a small group of people were gathered, one very noticeable head rising above the others, and Carla's shrill voice seemed to be aimed at him.

"...coming with you! What the fuck is your problem, Girard? Huh? Why do this if it makes you so goddamn angry?"

He was about to answer her, when his eyes settled on Christine. They stared at one another for a single moment of time, but it was long enough to see the rage and despair, before he dropped his eyes and fled the room.

Carla shot one burning glance at Christine, before going after him.

"What the hell was that all about?" Louise asked softly.

Christine still felt marked by that hopeless gaze; it was imprinted on her retinas. "I don't know," she whispered.

"But I intend to find out."


	8. Hoist With His Petard

**squishmich- Ah...a fellow bacon lover! Yess. So your reaction to Wacky Jack's scared Kitty? My apologies, and shame on you ;) Give her (him?) a treat posthaste, and send the bill to Erik the Tooth Fairy, C/O Wacky Jack's Singing Telegrams and Balloons. Um... is the perv in the neighborhood a foreshadowing? You bet. I'm glad you're enjoying rocker Erik...I'm kinda fond of him myself. Ditto with Sorelli. Leroux showed us very little of her, but for what he did, I liked. I'm pleased you're enjoying her sass. I struggled a little with descriptions of Erik singing, until I thought I couldn't do any better, but I wanted to convey how very remarkable he is musically. Again, I'm glad you liked it. _And_ his tight leather pants. **

**Your review made me laugh, and I'd rather do that than um...eat bacon ;)**

* * *

 **Thank yous to everyone kind enough to review, follow or fav.**

 **Just for the record... what do you think of a drunk rocker Erik?**

* * *

Christine felt as though her head had just hit the pillow when she heard the apartment door slamming shut, followed by a crash and a yelp of pain.

"Who lef' a chair in the minnle of the floor?!"

She relaxed slightly when she recognized the owner of that slurred voice. The prodigal roomie hath returned.

She slipped out of bed, glancing down at her attire; a hundred year old pair of blue french terry lounge pants, out at one knee, and a faded yellow crop tee which bared a good deal of her abdomen. She knew damned well her hair probably looked like she'd been dragged backward through a bush, and had nearly decided to hop back into her warm bed, when there came another crash.

He was destroying the apartment piece by piece.

Incensed, she marched barefoot into the hall, flicking on lights as she went. The trash can which had spilled its messy contents across the floor and the wooden kitchen chair straddling Erik, weren't all that hard to miss, and even if she had, the smell of booze would have been a dead giveaway.

"What the hell are you doing?" she snapped, lifting the chair off of him.

He looked up from the floor blinking owlishly at her, his arms and legs attempting to work together, but at the last moment deciding it wasn't worth it. He collapsed wearily back on his elbows. "You rearranged the kishen, didn' you, naughty girl?"

She put her hands on hips trying to appear daunting in her faded jammies, bare feet, and bird's nest hair. "Well, of course I did, Girard! What better way to entrap you? I simply piled everything in front of the door, knowing you couldn't walk for shit. So convenient that way," she sniffed disdainfully. "Next you'll believe I moved the bathroom."

"You _did_?" his mouth dropping open in astonishment.

She didn't even bother to reply to that. "You woke me up. I was _asleep_. Know what sleep is? That thing you don't do so well? _Normal_ people engage in it on a regular basis, Erik... that includes me, because it is," she glanced at the wall clock, "four in the arm pit of morning. Do you always keep such odd hours?"

He snorted and chuckled at the same time- a sound she would not care to have repeated anytime soon. "No. Um...I was tryin' to outrun Carla. Uh... _Darla_. She was very...um, pers...persiss... hell...she wouldn't leave me 'lone, an' I got thirsty. I ducked into a bar an' had four drinks," putting up two fingers. "Four? No, no. Thass not right. I lost _count_ at four."

"So did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Pay attention, you drunk! Did you lose Carla?"

He glanced around the kitchen, his head bobbing tiredly, then squinted up at Christine, trying to appear crafty and failing miserably. "You see her anywhere in thiss room, woman?"

"Well then, maybe she's sleeping in the hallway," and couldn't stop the evil snicker that particular image evoked.

"Doan care," he mumbled. "Therss your answer." He pillowed his head on his arms. "...wanna sleep now-"

"Well, you can't do it on the floor!"

Startled by her voice, he jumped in alarm and whined, "You are so _loud_! I am oosully really, really quiet, I have you know," as he belched, trying hard to hold onto some shreds of dignity while three sheets to the wind.

"Right now though, you are really, really pissed, my friend," gamely waving away the stink of whisky. It was oozing out of his skinny little pores in waves. "I thought you didn't...uh, how did you put it? Oh yes, yes. _I_ remember now. You have _never_ polluted your body with an excess of cheap alcohol."

"What itiod said that?"

She pointed a finger at him. "This idiot."

"Oh. It was all I could afford," he mumbled.

"Next time, stop at one _drink_ , not one bottle," she said snidely, getting on her knees beside him. "Can you stand up on your own, or do you need help?"

He said nothing.

"Hey!" and clapped her hands in front of his face. "Did you hear me, Erik?"

He put a bony finger to his lips. "Shh, Chrisshtine. You will wake Araminnow."

"You didn't seem too worried about that a few minutes ago. Besides, she's not here."

"Where ish see?"

"In a school with the other little fishies."

Erik looked up in panic and struggled to get to his feet. "Can she shwim? We haf to go get her!"

Christine sighed. "Only kidding, Girard." She put both hands on his narrow chest. "Relax. She's staying at the Girys' tonight."

"Who?"

"Meg Giry's home. Remember yesterday when we-"

"Why're we on the floor?"

"Because you fell here, Erik," gamely holding on to her patience. Her feet were cold and she had to pee.

"Oh." He peered at her through bloodshot eyes, his gaze dropping lower. He stared with sodden interest at her bare tummy. "Ohhh, Chrishtine! You have a...a... _ex_ tremely beau _ti_ ful na... nav- A um-" One finger scratched at his temple, bravely searching for the word that was playing hide and seek with him. "Um... button thingy."

"Belly button, Erik?"

"Thass the ticket," he responded wearily, before slumping back on the floor. "Chrishtine has a ou _tie_ ," and to her amusement, he began to sing...badly.

 _"I love t_ _a_ _...t_ _a_ _... watch her dance,_

 _and I lovvve ta watch her s-sing_

 _Wanna a liddle better look at her um...mm...button...mm...mm belly ring!"_

Christine considered this a red letter moment, that Erik Girard, who was the proud owner of the loveliest male voice she had ever been privileged to hear, just butchered a tune so badly, all that was needed was a shovel to bury it. Too bad he'd never recall it.

Too bad all of his new fans couldn't see him now, she thought meanly.

"Chrishtine?"

"Hmm?"

"I feel sick."

"Oh, great. Just great," she sniped. "Let's get you on your feet then, big boy. Come on...I'll help you."

"I really, really like you," he said sadly and belched.

She sighed in resignation, waving away the accompanying alcohol fumes. "Good to know, Girard. Good to know. You're not one of those weepy drunks, are you?"

"Ony when I run outta booze."

"Oh, you're a real sweetheart," Christine said derisively. She placed her arms under his and heaved. "Come on, daddy-long legs, up you get."

He didn't weigh very much, but his height made it awkward helping him to stand, as his upper body kept folding over her shoulder. She started to walk, supporting her burden with an arm wrapped around his waist, when he slapped a hand to his mouth, shoving her away, and took off at a shambling run. Erik had trouble standing _up_ _-_ running didn't seem like an awfully good idea. She went after him, as he careened off the doorjamb, nearly falling, but somehow managing to stay upright. She hoped to steer him in the right direction in case he decided to ralph all over the floor, but a loud thump had her sprinting to the bathroom only to find it locked against her. She reversed course slightly and entered her bedroom, glancing longingly at the bed, before bypassing it for the connecting door, and entered the bathroom that way.

The crash she'd heard wasn't a good sign; drunk, he was a one man wrecking crew.

At least he had made it in time if the retching noises were any indication, but unfortunately, it sounded violent, as what had smelled like an entire bottle of rotgut whisky came back out- the hard way.

She rounded the corner of the bathroom wall, to find the tall wicker hamper on the floor blocking her way. Just beyond it, Erik was hunched over, his arms wrapped like a lover's around the toilet. The air was redolent with the rank smell of vomit, and she reached into the cupboard to her left, and snatched the room spray off the shelf.

" _Fresh lilacs_ ," she read. " _Bring_ _home the welcome fragrance of spring_. Boy...do we need it now," and depressed the button, before taking a cautious breath.

Better.

Christine stepped over the hamper, her shocked brain and eyes noticing it at nearly the same time- just as his head swiveled around in her direction.

The mask was lying innocently on the floor, its empty eyes staring at nothing-

Erik's face wasn't in it.

But his nose was.

He looked at her in abject misery.

All the air whooshed out of her lungs, seeing his naked face for the first time.

His nose.

Or rather, the lack of one. "No nose," she whispered. "Damn, Erik. You don't have a nose." It was a face stripped of padding, the bone structure, stark and grim, resembling nothing more than the warnings one sees on every bottle of poison.

A threat of mortal danger.

She momentarily squeezed her eyes shut, the image imprinted there. Both masks gave the impression of a nose and a rather large one at that. In reality, it was only wishful thinking.

It was so much worse.

"Get out," he muttered in exhaustion, his sweaty hair hanging in his face, his thin lips peeled back in a weak snarl. But his stomach wasn't done rebelling, and he turned back to the toilet and helplessly vomited into it, his knobby back hunched painfully over the john. The gagging sounds he was making, caused her stomach to clench in sympathetic nausea.

With his shirt sleeves rolled back, Christine had a much better view of his tats. She eyed them curiously, laid bare as they were on his pale skin. Erik's right arm sported a black low slung motorcycle, a skeleton in the harlequin costume of a court Fool, crouched over the handlebars, yellow flames shooting out of the dark holes of its eyes.

 _How apt. Wonder how he came up with that one?_

She craned her neck around to see the tatoo on his left forearm. A grinning skull made up the upper body of a winged violin, the neck and peg board appearing to have been violently thrust through the top of the skull, its empty eye sockets black and cavernous. The words that onstage had appeared as mere squiggles read- _**Hope is Beauty Personified.**_

Christine raised her right sleeve a little, and regarded the tattoo on _her_ arm. A tiny wire bird cage, its door sprung wide open, and an equally tiny bird flying away to freedom. She had felt so brave and daring the day she got her tattoo. Louise had insisted she get it one afternoon when they were out shopping. It was just after her divorce had become final. She looked at the man huddled in misery at her feet, and reached for a washcloth.

He wanted to die. Just crawl away and expire in some handy black hole where they would only find his body when it was reduced to an actual skeleton instead of merely the facsimile of one. His fragile ego was flayed and in tatters, and once he recovered enough, he would leave here. He had to anyway. Once more an adoring public had found him.

So had his mother.

Erik wanted neither.

Skipping town when the spotlight became too bright, was the standard for him. He had done it often enough in the intervening years. Keeping one step ahead of one half of his gene pool had been easy enough when she wanted very little to do with him. Now, she did.

And he wasn't interested. He could pack up and leave as he had done many times over the years. No one was allowed into his confidence- no one was permitted too close.

Until now.

For some strange reason, the thought of leaving was unwelcome. _She_ was annoying, outspoken and thin skinned, and she was driving him insane. Never a good thing with his track record. The best part of Christine was her daughter. A sweet loving child who saw something to like in the living embodiment of a six month old corpse. But first things first as he heaved into the toilet again, shivering and feeling utterly exposed to her eyes. He forced her out of his mind, and thought he had done a credible job, when he felt something warm and wet on the back of his neck, and a small hand pulling the lank hair back from his nightmare inducing face.

He shied like an abused animal, tenderness had been conspicuously absent in his life, and for that reason, he always assumed there was a catch to it. He trembled in fear and hope as she stroked the back of his neck with the wash cloth until it had cooled, then transferred it to his forehead.

It felt good to him, and unconsciously he leaned into it, sighing tiredly.

"I've done this a few times myself," she said in a shaky voice, aware of the fact that he didn't have a nose. No nose! A wave of revulsion mixed with profound pity, tightened her throat. She was horrified and heavy-hearted. Repulsed, yet shamed by that very repulsion, she began to babble, "It wasn't that I _wanted_ to get wasted; I only meant to keep up with Sorelli and stop her from getting into some deep shit. We ended up at one-thirty in the morning climbing into a city fountain looking for spare change." Her words sounded lame even to her own ears.

He said nothing, just listened to the murmur of her voice. It was pleasant, even if the circumstances were not. His stomach had finally emptied, leaving behind acid indigestion and an awful taste in his mouth. He was exhausted and aching, knowing he would pay dearly for this in the morning. Ah, but it _was_ morning. He took a couple of swipes at the toilet handle and finally managed to flush what was left of Old Crow bourbon, out of sight. Gone but most certainly not forgotten, as he rested his forehead on one bony wrist and closed his eyes, resisting the urge to look at her.

"You don't have to do this," his voice hoarse and defeated. Just being himself was an unending trip through purgatory. Much like Scooby Doo's repetitive gyrations on his wheel. Always moving, but going nowhere.

"Yeah, I do," she responded quietly, handing him a glass of cold water. Rinse, spit, repeat."

"Why?"

"To get that crappy taste out of your mouth."

A ghost of a smile flickered briefly and winked out. "I meant...why are you being nice?" his voice raspy.

Christine struck an indignant pose, one hand on her hip. "Didn't we have an argument not too long ago over that very word and my complete lack of it?"

"Why, Christine?"

"Because...well, because you're my friend. Satisfied?"

He merely nodded, staring blankly at the floor. But her words had him placing both hands over his face. "Say it again," he mumbled through spread fingers.

"Because you're my friend," she said simply, surprised that it was true.

"That's what we are?"

Christine patted the sharp ridge of his shoulder, keeping her eyes averted. "I know, I know. It's nothing, right?"

She felt his back expand in a strangled breath.

He was stunned, and gave his hands something to do...like covering his shame. He pressed the mask to his face, his hair falling forward and hiding him from her gaze. "It is everything, Christine. You don't know- " he whispered brokenly.

"I think I do."

"No. You don't. No one does."

The quiet hopelessness in his voice had a strange effect on her arms. They wanted to reach out and enfold him in a warm and secure embrace. Rock him back to happy. Which of course, she would never act upon.

No nose.

Well, Steve Martin had a huge shnoz in Roxanne and _he_ couldn't get a date. Which meant that having a nose wasn't everything. But come to think of it, Erik could obviously have Carla if he wanted, so he wasn't exactly that hard up. On second thought...he was. She was squicky and a back yard prima donna to boot. Nose-less or not, he could do a hellava lot better than Giudicelli.

She sighed wearily, longing for her bed, as she hooked her arms under his, helping him to his feet. He swayed precariously before righting himself. "I can manage now, thank you," said so stiffly and politely, it broke her heart.

"You sure? You need to lie down."

He nodded tiredly and began to shuffle out of the bathroom, moving like an infirm old man, his bony knees wobbling dangerously a few times before he managed to convince her he could walk. She righted the hamper, then scrubbed the toilet down, and took her long awaited pee, before going to check on him.

Christine stood in the doorway of his room looking at the empty bed. "Where...?" She checked the kitchen first, setting to rights that room, scraping egg and coffee grounds off of the lumpy linoleum, before taking a peek in the living room. No long lanky form stretched out on the couch. "Okay, Girard, I know you're skinny, but you're nowhere near small enough to fit through a crack!" Just to be sure, she made certain the front door was locked and bolted. He didn't leave and he didn't go up the damned chimney.

That left only one place she hadn't looked.

"Oh, shit."

Sure enough, Christine found him sprawled on her bed, looking very comfortable indeed. "Just what do you think you're doing? I said go to _your_ bed, not mine!" She stared at him a moment and got no response. She was about to give him a good shake when he opened one bloodshot eye and rolled it blearily toward her.

"This is nice," and squirmed his body back and forth, settling in for what was left of the night.

"Shit," she said again, knowing it would take dynamite to get him out of her bed after this. He had tasted nirvana, he wouldn't go back to dreck. She gave up, recalling in time whose name was on the lease. Technically, this was his bed. She unlaced his boots, tugging them off of his feet. She lifted his thin legs onto the mattress, covering him with the gold comforter, and carefully tucking it around him. It was hard to believe that just a short while ago, he held a roomful of people in thrall just by his voice alone. Now he was having trouble removing his own shoes.

"I'll let you take off your mask," she said, smoothing hair from his forehead with a light touch. "Maybe we'll talk about what led to your bender a little later. 'kay?"

He lay there, enjoying the soft, man sized bed, and the novelty of being fussed over. It was a first for him. He opened his mouth to say...to say what? Don't hate me for my dead face? Don't despise me for not being the kind of man you require to be happy? Instead he said nothing, but turned his face away. For once, sleep seemed like a good idea.

She had called him friend.

" _My scars remind me that the past is real._

 _I tear my heart open, just to...just to feel._ "

A welling of tenderness tightened her chest at the softly crooned words. She pulled the door shut gently and raised a palm to the wooden panel. "Rest well," and trudged across the hall to sleep a few more hours.

* * *

"Aunt Louise? How old do I have to get before I can marry somebody?"

Sorelli glanced over at Min sitting in the passenger seat. "I think you have a few more years to grow. But humor me, puddin'. Do you have anyone in mind?"

She shook her head. "Uh uh. You'll tell him."

"Don't think so. I tell you stuff and _you_ don't blab it around. Besides, I thought we were pals?"

"We are," Min said innocently.

"And you trust me?"

"Uh huh."

"Then spill."

"You won't tell him?"

"Didn't I just say so? Nope. Cross my heart, and all that jazz."

"'specially him?"

"Oh, _especially_ him. Who is it?"

Min took a deep breath, giving up her dream to the light of day. "Erik."

"Erik is your mystery man?"

"I wanna marry him someday."

Louise kept her mouth from breaking into a grin. It was obvious that Min had her first crush on the opposite sex. She had picked a doozy. "Well, I think that's fine, Minnie, but you'll have to wait about twelve years or so. By then you might just feel a little differently."

"No," she sighed, and Sorelli wanted to laugh at the little girl's air of solemnity. "He's the boy I want to spend my life with. Him and Scooby." She considered for a moment. "And Mom too."

"Oh, so more or less how you're living now. Am I right?"

Min looked out the car window as their apartment building came into view. "I don't want him to go away," she said softly.

"Min, do you ever miss your father?"

"No," she said dismissively. "I don't remember him very well." She wrinkled her nose a little. "But I miss Uncle Phil sometimes."

"Me too," Sorelli whispered sotto voce.

"I'm gonna ask Mom if we can bake cookies for Erik."

"You really like him, don't you, Min?"

"Uh huh. He's gonna teach me to play poker!"

Louise pulled in at the curb and killed the engine. "Let's go roust your lazy mother out of bed," and Min giggled conspiratorially.

When they got to the apartment, Louise tapped lightly on the door. "I have a special delivery for a dame named Daae!"

"It's de Chagny, twinkle toes." A completely washed out Christine opened the door and smiled tiredly at them. "Shh. Sleeping Beauty is still out of it," and shuffled back across the room, plopping down in a chair. "Coffee?"

"Thought you'd never ask," replied Louise, sitting down.

Christine waved a languid hand at the coffee maker. "Help yourself."

"You'll never get hostess of the year award, Daae," and climbed back to her feet.

Christine stared at her friend with weary resignation. "Hell...I give up. Daae it is," and took another sip of her coffee. She turned to her daughter. "Are you hungry, Min?"

"I already ate. Mrs. Giry made me waffles."

"Did you have a good time? Come here and give your mom a kiss and you can tell me all about your stay."

Min gave her mother a hug and kiss, but refused to sit down. "I want ta see Erik and Scooby," and took off for her former room.

"Didn't you say Erik was still sleeping?" Louise asked absentmindedly, stirring milk into her cup.

"Yeah, but he's not in that room, he's in mi..." She looked up and caught the knowing look on Louise's face. "Wait just one damned minute! It's not what-"

"Ooh, Christine! All that hotness up on that stage last night got to you! Obviously, he decided to ditch Carla and take advantage of a much better offer."

"Get your mind outta the gutter, Sorelli. Erik came home early this morning a little under the weather, and I let him sleep off his discomfort in a bed where he could stretch out."

"Drunk?"

"As a skunk," Christine agreed, not even trying to deny it.

"Did you ever find out what happened after the show?"

"No, but I hope to later today after he feels better. Which might take a while. I expect he'll have a hellava hangover, but maybe I can get him to tell me what caused him to guzzle a fifth of something nasty."

"Sounds like he really tied one on," Sorelli commented.

"You could say that," Christine said dryly. "Thanks for bringing Min home."

"No problem. By the way, you do realize that little gal of yours is crushin' on your roomie?"

"That is an impossibility if there ever was one, Louise," the roomie stated as he entered the kitchen.

She turned and surveyed a barefoot Erik in jeans and an untucked button down shirt, now walking slowly and carefully into the room. She tilted her head at him. "You're listing to port there, Erik. Bet you could use a cup of coffee."

"I could use a new head, but coffee will do for now," as he gingerly sat down at the table.

Christine tried to keep the shit eating grin off of her face, but failed. "What you need is a little hair of the dog."

"What I need is a little more common sense," he returned morosely.

Sorelli set a mug of coffee in front of him and leaned over. "By the way, what you just heard is not to go any further than this table. That was told in strictest confidence, and _you_ are not to know."

"Know what?"

"Good man."

"My lips are sealed forever," he intoned in a deep sepulchral voice.

"I hope not. Your voice is amazing, my friend," Louise declared. "I just can't figure out why you haven't become rich and famous off of it."

He said nothing for a moment, then changed the subject entirely. "Did Araminta enjoy her evening?"

"Sounds like it," Christine replied. "I'm surprised she isn't out here yet. She couldn't wait to see you.

"And Scooby."

"At least I figure ahead of the rodent. She gave me a hug," he said, looking surprised and pleased at the same time. "She's going for another record blasting the undead, and told me she will join us presently."

"Araminnow is your number one fan, Erik," Christine said, turning around from the toaster and winking at him.

He stared at her in bewilderment, wondering...hoping she just had a nervous tick. "I am not someone to be held in admiration by a little child, Christine," looking at her with haunted, bloodshot eyes, "but I cherish the thought that I am."

She could just imagine how his head must feel right now- like an over-ripe melon being relentlessly squeezed in a vice. "Well, you'll get an argument right there. And with good reason. You treat her like she isn't just an evil necessity. Most men in her life have rarely given her more than a pat on the head before ignoring her completely. You don't. You're sweet with her actually, and that's pretty heady stuff for a seven year old."

Erik said nothing, as he sat slumped over in his chair, fingers kneading his aching temples, and in the sudden silence, Sorelli took that as her cue to leave. "I'd love to stay and shoot the breeze all day with you sluggards, but I have things to do. I got a show tonight." She turned back at the door and looked earnestly at Erik. "You really were some kind of fine last night," and before he could answer her, she had disappeared out the door.

"Want some toast?" Christine inquired softly.

He shook his head, feeling worn and slightly nauseous, and was startled when she handed him a glass of ginger ale and two headache capsules. "This will help. Trust me."

He stared at her, their fingers touching briefly. Her smile was warm and friendly, putting her light years away from the angry young woman he had first dealt with. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"You're welcome," as their eyes caught and held.

"Erik! Will you teach me to play poker today?" Min said as she came into the kitchen.

The moment was broken, and Christine had mixed feelings about it. She wasn't comfortable with what she saw in the muted gold of his arresting eyes, nor was she comfortable with the answering warmth in her chest. She wanted no more entanglements with men. That only led to hurt. She was fine with just her daughter, thank you very much.

And yet she was still shocked by his next words.

"I am afraid I won't be able to, Araminta. I-I have to look for work."

"Why? You already got a job," Min said in confusion.

"Yes, I'd like to know the answer to that as well." Christine felt a bubble of uncertainty making its way into her good mood. But it was true. She felt better than she had in days, and she didn't want to look too closely as to the reason why.

"Min? Don't you have to clean Scooby's cage?"

"Well, yeah, I do, but I was gonna wait 'til later."

"No, you go clean it now. It's beginning to smell." So will the conversation that's about to take place.

"But I-"

"Now, please," she said firmly, never taking her eyes off of the bowed head in front of her.

She waited until Min was out of the room. "Why, Erik? You were wonderful last night! I can understand drinking too much for one reason or another, but I don't think it's that simple. You were upset about something yesterday. Tell me to shut the hell up if I'm sticking my nose in where it isn't wanted, but what's going on?" She had become used to Girard being around. _Min_ had got used to having him around, Christine amended. She didn't care if Erik left.

Not a bit.

She tried again. "Does this have anything to do with your argument last night?"

"You know about that?"

"Purple Hair told us about it."

"Purple Hair? Oh. Kendrick." his smile faint, but there.

"Well? Does it?" she pressed.

He shrugged. "I was hoping this time would be different. I don't want a lot of attention on what I do, Christine. When Khan told me about the opening at LipSync I believed the venue would be seen as just another rundown wannabe singing club on some dingy backstreet. I would play in the band, record the music for the peeps wanting a shot at being onstage, and everyone would leave me alone."

"Okay, but that doesn't explain _why_. You're so damned good, Erik!"

"I have my reasons," and he forestalled her next question before she even opened her mouth. "No, I don't want to talk about it at this moment. Maybe someday."

She could see the finality in his eyes, and decided to keep quiet- for now. "Okay."

"Usually, once the attention became too much, I would quit that gig and head to the next city. I have never settled anywhere for very long."

"Is that what's going to happen here? You're just going to up and leave?"

"Not yet. I made a promise to someone that I would stay, and I intend to."

"Not wanting to hear the answer, she asked anyway. "Carla?"

" _Carla?_ " he said in bewilderment. "No. Whatever gave you that idea? Your daughter, Christine. She has been left too many times, and I do not want to be the cause for that look in her eyes to return."

"What look?"

"The look of abandonment which should never be seen on a small child's face. That day I walked her to the bus, she implored me to never leave," he said quietly.

"I told you she had a sound reason to like you."

He said nothing.

"Did you quit or were you fired?"

"Neither...yet. Abba was a trifle _upset_ that I wouldn't accept an exclusive five year contract from him. He told me I was going places."

"You don't have to take a contract, and if you don't want the publicity, no one can force you to put up with it. Why don't you stay at LipSync for a while and see what happens?" She looked playfully at him. "Hell, why don't you develop some tone deafness? Sing outta tune like you did last night, and get all croaky once in a while."

"I _sang_?"

"Yup. Don't remember, do you?"

"No."

It was tempting. He was tired of running from his past...tired of starting over again and again. If he were being honest with himself, he enjoyed living with Christine and her daughter. If he squinted a little, he would actually think he had a family of his own. A dysfunctional one, to be sure, but a family all the same.

"Tell me something, Christine. Did my face frighten you?"

He had startled her with his abrupt change of subject. "No."

"None?"

"Uh uh." She might soon be on his shit list, but the words were tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop them, "Only surprised by your nose. I had it pegged as Romanesque."

He nearly smiled again. "Not even a little weirded out? The hollow eye sockets or sharp as a blade cheek bones didn't make you the least bit squeamish? Try again, but this time the truth, if you please. I happen to know what I resemble."

She gave it up as a bad job. She never could lie convincingly. "Okay, okay. It _was_ a bit shocking, but I was never frightened of you or," she waggled her fingers at his mask, "that."

He was surprised by how relieved he felt at her words. "You were very...kind to me last night. I was expecting your censure- some name calling. Not a friendly Christine."

"Well," she began sheepishly, "there was a _little_ name-calling, and yeah, sure, I'm a nasty bitch usually, but you finally caught me on my good side."

"Is that all?"

"I have to look out for Min's friend."

"Is that all?"

"Your needle's stuck, Girard." He continued to stare at her, a glimmer of good humor returning to his eyes. She was happy to see it. "And mine," she admitted. "There. Happy now?"

"It's a start." Friend. The word sounded just right. Less...alone. "Very well. I'll take your advice and continue at the club.

"On one condition."

"Which is?"

"Don't give up on your own music."

"We'll see," she said dubiously, and thought of something. "You going in to work this afternoon?"

He nodded. "Around four. Why?"

"We have just enough time to get some shopping done at the Furniture Barn."

"Oh?" He remembered the last time they had shopped together. It hadn't ended all that well. "For what?" he asked suspiciously.

"A new bed."


	9. An Ill Wind Which Blows No Man to Good

**Guest- Erik as a full bodied whisky? LOL. More like a dry Furmint wine produced in the Hungarian village of Mad ;) After all, in the original PotO he raided a Brandenburg wine cellar for Tokay. Although after his recent binge, I doubt he'll get close to a bottle of _anything_ for a good while.**

 **Now, where's my Wendy's Portobello Mushroom burger?**

* * *

 ** _This chapter- Another poker night. Christine has a hot flash. The ladies de Chagny channel a frustrated Erik._**

* * *

The perspective from his London high rise in Vauxhall was breathtaking, and one that Philippe had often admired. He enjoyed the view at different times, during different seasons, but his favorite was in the spring when the chance for a thunderstorm grew, and he was sometimes treated to a display of nature's fury thirty-four floors in the air. Standing in front of the large plate glass window in his kitchen, watching streaks of lightning etching veins of silver across the gloomy sky, was an event he seldom missed. He had enjoyed it alone over the years and been content.

Until now.

He had become disenchanted with his solitary lifestyle, and the frenetic pace that his schedule often demanded. If he was to be honest with himself, loneliness factored into that in a very large way. Oh, not that he didn't have companionship; he had made friends here over the years, and had no shortage of interesting people populating his life, and that included the female variety as well. His relationships with them had been fulfilling and satisfying in the past, but in the last two years he had rarely kept one going for long.

A lovely brown haired vixen with expressive hazel eyes, had intruded more often into his thoughts of late. If he were completely honest with himself, she had loomed large in many of them for the past two years, often comparing her with other women and finding that they all fell short. Their falling out was silly really. The idea of relocating a dancer to the shores of the UK, had put paid to their plans for a life together. Louise had not wanted to leave her home or career behind to find love and happiness with him. And _he_ had not wanted to give up his position as a corporate lawyer with the engineering firm he represented, to resettle and be closer to her.

A matter of geography had decided their lives.

As the English would say- rubbish.

He ran a hand through his hair. Hair which was still thick and brown, but had acquired a few grays peppered throughout. He was on the youngish side at forty-two, kept himself fit with a minimum of fat on his six foot frame, but a wife and family took time and if he were to get a shot at having both, he would have to make a decision soon. Perhaps he could relocate to the States and try wooing Louise all over again. If she would have him.

A niggle of unease shot through him.

If she was still available.

A visit to Christine and Min was also long overdue. The little girl was the best thing his brother had ever accomplished, but the idiot had thrown it all away to go chase down three different sub species of flying squirrels, as opposed to one adorable little girl child who had the wide friendly grin of their deceased mother, Olivia de Chagny.

Christine was a good parent- had been a good wife until loneliness and diverging interests had driven her away from Raoul. Phil had seen the tell tale signs of incompatibility when his brother and Christine had first started dating. Both young and consumed with the way each other looked- two handsome people with little else in common but good genes and sexual desire. And apparently even the sex had fizzled out due to Ray's growing absences.

Moral of their particular story and one he'd never wished to emulate- it's never a good idea to steer a prospective spouse to the altar. Better to arrive there side by side.

Christine had found out too late that a good marriage is hard to accomplish when only one is trying. He'd had no problem with her filing for divorce from his brother. Ray had brought it on himself by choosing career over family, but their apartment in the suburbs had at least provided a comfortable home for Christine and Min. Phil was therefore surprised when his ex-sister-in-law had taken up with Nadir Khan after her divorce, and left her apartment behind to live in the city with the often out of work actor.

Phil hadn't been impressed with Khan _or_ the apartment, the former possessing too much ready charm, the latter a seedy brownstone in an even seedier neighborhood, but it wasn't his business to tell Christine how to manage her life.

He had last seen them two years ago.

Cowardice over running into Louise again, was the biggest reason for not returning sooner, but he had kept in touch with his former sister-in-law and his niece through cards and letters, often with checks included for clothing and what-not that little girls just had to have.

Yes, he would go and have a visit with Min and Christine first. He would wine and dine the two lovely ladies, spoil Min with a shopping expedition, maybe a trip to the zoo, and after a few days casually drop Louise's name into a conversation, sending out feelers for a rapprochement.

The idea that began as an abstract thought had now coalesced into a working plan. He felt an excitement sliding into his veins, percolating along into actual motion, as he turned away from the spectacular view of the London skyline, and prepared for a journey into his future.

* * *

"Pay attention, Araminta. This is exceedingly important if you want to excel at playing cards. You must develop a poker face."

Min couldn't help grinning. "A poker face?"

"What he means, Minnie, is one just like his," Christine added, shooting Erik a teasing glance. "Unsmiling and asleep at the wheel."

"Oh," not understanding her mother at all. "But I'm not tired. See?" and grinned to prove it.

"What your mother _means_ ," rolling an amused eye Christine's way, "is one devoid of all emotion," gesturing to Min's smile. "Wipe _that_ off. Not allowed. It's something which you must work on." The girl wouldn't have to show her cards to anyone; her face would give them away.

"I don't think I can stop myself from smiling when I feel like it," Min said frowning,

"Then think only sad thoughts," Christine interjected. "Think of, um...no more Harry Potter movies or books."

"That would put a smile on my face," Erik said.

"You need to lighten up, Girard. Can't be your nights. That nice big bed of yours should put you in the Land of Nod every single night and keep you there."

"It does an adequate job."

"That's high praise coming from you," Christine declared, as she set a bowl of popcorn on the table.

Erik shot her another amused glance, dramatically clearing his throat as he began explaining poker to the girl. "The game starts with a player making a forced bet. The bet you place is according to what you believe your hand is worth compared to the other players. Following me?" he asked, observing Min.

She managed a nod, before shaking her head no in frustration. Chewing on her lower lip, she alternated between concentrating on the cards and feeding the gerbil in her lap little pieces of popcorn. She chuckled at his antics for more.

"Kindly ignore Mr. Doo for the moment, Araminta, if you please."

"I was thinkin' how fat Scooby would get if he ate the whole bowl," and she clinched it with a giggle.

His eyes met Christine's again in shared amusement, before looking back at Min. "I shudder to visualize a rodent that large, now pay attention."

As his soporific voice taught Min the rudiments of the game, Christine listened with half an ear as she leaned against Erik's shoulder and set a plate of chocolate chip cookies in the center of the table.

He paused in his shuffling of the deck, caught off guard by her warm body pressed against him, and the accompanying feeling of loss when she moved away. He riffled the cards quickly and efficiently, then with his thumbs, pushed them upward into an arch, before changing the position of his fingers, to let the cards cascade back into a deck again. This was all accomplished in a matter of seconds. He dealt them each five cards...once again, carried out with speed and precision, and her fascination with his dexterity, nearly had her asking him to do it all over again.

"Is there _anything_ you don't do well, Girard?" an impressed Christine asked, her tone as dry as the Sahara. "Just to set the record straight, you understand."

"Ooh, I wanna learn that!" Min squealed excitedly. "Can you teach me, Erik?"

"Something I don't do well," he murmured, tilting his head in thought. "Well... falling asleep doesn't always come that easily for me, hence the violin. It puts me in the right mood. Um...I sing way off-key when I have had too much uh...too much _grape_ juice," he replied to Christine, who rolled her eyes at this.

"Off-key, huh? Yeah, for some reason, I can almost...I say _almost_ picture something like that happening. Funny, isn't it?" grinning wickedly at him.

Erik chose to ignore her, instead glancing at Min. "Yes, I will teach you the fine art of shuffling and dealing _if_ you pay attention to this lesson."

"Nadir liked to sing sometimes, didn't he, Mom?" Min said, looking innocently at Christine. "He wasn't very good. It wasn't grape juice though. It was something he called, um... Harry Doorbangers."

"That's Harvey Wallbangers, honey," Christine said, holding the popcorn bowl out to Min. "Have some more."

"Let me guess," Erik began, "Once he had enough Harry Doorbangers and finished butchering a melody, he did Act III, Scene I from Henry V?"

Min giggled. "Uh uh. He stuck a lampshade on his head and danced like a monkey."

"So he dances and sings as well as he acts. He is at least consistent," Erik replied snidely. He got back to business. "You now have five cards in front of you. Pick them up, and look at them. Remember what I have told you. Poker face, Araminta. I don't want to see any evidence of a good or bad hand in your expression."

The little girl nodded, swinging her legs back and forth beneath the chair, as she studied her cards, a tiny furrow of concentration between her brows. Christine turned to Erik and found him watching her. Caught looking, he transferred his gaze back to Min.

Christine studied _him._

Physically, not much about Erik could be considered appealing by anyone. Least of all his face; in fact most women if they saw it, would look at him with horrified pity. The fact that _she_ could get beyond it was probably due to their growing friendship over these six months they had lived together. That, and the knowledge that Erik was at heart, a decent man.

But a few things about him fired her interest. His hands, although skeletally thin, were long and fluid- graceful in their own way as they performed even the most mundane of tasks with economy and finesse. His body was long and super lean, moving with a poise and elegance not often found in very tall men- most seemed to slump down as though trying to make themselves smaller. Not so Erik. He always carried himself with thin shoulders squared and head erect. Somehow, Christine had come to find him attractive in a very unconventional sort of way.

His voice now...oh, that voice! It wrapped around her nerve endings and drenched her in pure sensation. If she were a cat, she would be purring and arching her back under his hand. And he was only explaining to Min how to play a damned card game, not whispering dirty words in Christine's ear in that oh-so-soft purr of his. Things he wanted to do to her... things he wanted to do _with_ her...

" **Mom**!" Min cupped a hand around her mouth, leaned closer to her mother, and yelled. "Earth to Mother Ship! Can you hear me?"

Christine's reaction was immediate, as she jumped a few inches out of her chair and turned a bright shade of crimson. "Geez, Min! That was a snotty thing to do!" gasping in fright, one hand going to her chest.

"You were spaced out, Mom. We had to bring you back. Right, Erik?"

"Oh, no you don't! Your mother's heart attack will not be pinned on me," he told her firmly.

Min turned back to her cards, eyes widening, and she began crowing in delight, pumping both fists in the air, startling Scooby Doo who was curled up in her lap. "Yes, yes, **yes**!"

Erik tossed his cards on the table and sat back, regarding her sternly. "Why don't you do a jig while you're at it? Your joy isn't quite sufficient to tip us off."

"Sorry," the girl mumbled, realizing she had blown it. She showed Erik her cards. "Four of a kind is good, right?"

"Yes. Very worthy of your delight, but as I explained to you, keep your _happy_ inside where no one can see it. I have known a roomful of toddlers to have better poker faces than yours!"

"Girard, when have you ever been in a roomful of toddlers?" Christine demanded, and laughed when she felt his foot beneath the table giving her a nudge.

It was a Sunday evening and a rare night for Erik to be off. They had taken advantage of it by baking cookies that afternoon and ordering pizza for supper. That he had decided to spend the evening with them, didn't seem strange anymore to the three.

Christine had to reluctantly acknowledge to herself, that she was enjoying herself.

Her cleaning job at the Lyceum, although far from exciting, was at least putting some much needed cash in her wallet. Not only was she able to meet her half of the rent when it came due, but she was able to hand Erik the thirty-five dollars he had lent her way back when they were first getting used to each other. Once groceries were bought, she even had a little money left over, and out of this, she socked some away for Christmas which was fast approaching. Thanksgiving was only a week away.

Erik had stripped and painted a good portion of the downstairs hallway as he had promised Mrs. Turley, by working a few hours whenever he could before leaving for the club. That afternoon he had finally finished the last of it, while Min and Christine baked chocolate chip cookies, and the young girl took him a plate, still warm and gooey from the oven. Together, they sat side by side on the stairs and ate them.

While Erik walked her daughter through the card game, Christine's thoughts returned to that morning and the disturbing dream she'd had, the details becoming fragmented and wispy as Min, sunshine, and reality intruded.

It wasn't the erotic nature of the dream which surprised her. Those were nothing new. _She_ really couldn't help what her subconscious mind produced, anymore than she could help who made themselves at home there. But it was the illusory participant who was kissing her with such abandon that made her uneasy. His arms had been wound around her as they strained closer to each other, mouths hungrily fused together. She had moaned against his lips, a feeling of rightness to it as her arms crept up around his neck, her fingers burying themselves in his soft black hair, threading her fingers through it.

Mmm...so silky.

 _Erik..._

"Hey! You're pulling out Dash's mane!" Min had cried, tugging the rainbow colored My Little Pony out of Christine's clutching hands. The dream popped like a soap bubble, leaving her feeling silly and a little lost as she was abruptly awakened.

She was mortified looking at the red, orange, and green strands of fake hair between her fingers, and shook them off, before swinging her legs out of bed. "How about pancakes for breakfast?" she had croaked. "I'm in the mood for some. How 'bout you?"

"Yeah, that'd be great. I'll bet Erik would like some too."

"Um," her mother had replied and headed for the bathroom, only to find it locked. She put one ear against the door, and was treated to a very enthusiastic rendition of Love You More above the sound of the shower. She squeezed her legs together and leaned against the door, listening to his impromptu performance and wondering if she should cut back on the water pressure to eject him out of there. She had quickly decided to abandon that idea. As much fun as it would have been to hear him going from singing to yelling when his hot shower went to a trickle, he was just the man to retaliate.

Christine had better things to do than guard her back around him.

The door protested as her weight settled against it, and she wasn't at all surprised when he called out, "Be done in a few!"

Ears like a damned bat, she thought rudely, trying to ignore the heaviness in her bladder. She went and sat on the edge of the bed, Min having removed herself and Dash far beyond her mother's grasping hands. She could hear the TV in the living room, and couldn't help but admire her girl's bladder and the resultant envy that came with it.

She was bounced out of her reverie when the bathroom door opened a crack and fragrant steam, followed by Erik's hiss came through it. "It's all yours in ten seconds."

She yawned and eyed the door with irritation. "You didn't use up all the hot water, did you, Girard?"

"Of course I did, de Chagny! Which one of us got the cold shower yesterday, hmm?" and closed the door with a snap.

"Smart ass," she replied mildly and got to her feet.

And that had concluded her morning. After taking care of business, followed by a shower, Girard having left her some hot water after all, she had fixed the three of them pancakes.

Erik had made peace, sort of, with Mark Abba, and to keep his keyboardist and lead vocalist happy, Abba had dropped his plans for a five year contract for now. Erik's popularity, along with the crowds, had continued to grow, but with dogged patience and the help of Ralph, he out-waited any of the groupies hanging about outside the club, and so far, he was satisfied with his decision to stay on.

Except for Carla, that is.

Christine could always tell when the other woman was making another play for him; he would come home out of sorts. So far, he had been able to keep her at a fair distance, using other members of the band as a buffer zone, but she wondered sometimes, how much longer this state of affairs could last. Giudicelli struck her as the kind not to give up without a struggle.

In other words...a pain in the ass.

There were also times when he would get the mail, and become a different man altogether, secretive and abrupt, before yanking himself out of whatever blue funk he had found himself in. Christine had collected the mail at times, finding among the bills and ads, a pale blue envelope addressed to him. She had finally realized that these were the times when Erik's mood would change for the worse. All because of someone who lived in Hartford, Connecticut and wrote in an elegant copperplate style.

Christine was very curious about her, for it _was_ a woman who sent him letters every so often. She knew this with a woman's latent knowledge, and also realized it was someone from his troubled past. What was she to her friend and why did it make him so negative? She could only guess and silently commiserate until Erik decided to confide in her. Life tended to miss some folk's plates, and unswervingly find other ones to pile trouble on...heaping helpings of the stuff. Her friend had been given more than his fair share, starting with the face he had been born with.

But, Christine, in another flash of intuition had decided that Erik's face had contributed to what he had become.

And she liked that man very much.

Which led them to sitting companionably around the kitchen table that night playing poker. They sat staring at their cards and sneaking peeks at each other when they thought it was safe. "So tell me, Erik...you've had that large bed for a good while now. Right?"

He glanced briefly at her, raising an unseen eyebrow. "Yes. As you well know, since you picked it out. Your point?"

"You slept later this morning. That must be a record for you." She thought of him stretching out his long length in the slatted wood bed with the mattress she had chosen for him. Really...he had been very malleable in allowing her to make the final decision.

"Is this about getting into the bathroom before you this morning?" he asked suspiciously.

"No. I just thought better sleep would improve your mood."

"Hasn't worked for _you_ , has it?" he returned, and felt his mouth trying to pull into a smile when she protested.

"I'm always in a good mood, Girard."

"I beg to differ, but the bed _is_ comfortable even if it does take up the entire room."

Which it did.

It also happened to be the location of her dream that very morning, the two of them pressed so close together on his bed, a sheet of paper wouldn't have fit between them. Christine laid her cards face down, and went over to the living room window and shoved it up a few inches before returning to her chair.

"A little chilly out there tonight," Erik stated mildly.

"A little warm in here," she fired back, refusing to look at him as her daughter regarded the man who figured prominently in her mother's dreams.

"I'll see your bet and raise you five Fruit Loops," Min declared hesitantly, before slipping Scooby a piece of cereal.

"That's not exactly sanitary, Min. He's pooping all over your lap."

"No he's not," she said defensively. "He's pooping all over the tea towel."

"Shit," Christine muttered.

"Exactly," grinned Erik, displaying his crooked smile, which to Christine, was looking better and better.

She needed to get out more.

"Come on, Mom! _Your_ turn."

Christine sat back down, fanning herself with her cards while regarding her two pitiful Fruit Loops. "I fold," and passed her cereal to Min. "Give 'em to Scooby."

Erik nodded approvingly at the girl. "Very good, Araminta. What have you got? Lay your cards on the table and let's see."

She spread them out, chewing anxiously on her lip. "A full house. Three jacks and two fours," she said, cautiously hopeful.

"Three nines," laying his own cards down. "Congratulations," he said, amused by her sudden glee. "You've won your first game."

Min jumped up from the table, and pumped two fists in the air, a startled gerbil going along for the ride as the girl did a credible moonwalk.

"If you're done fleecing us for the evening, go take your bath," Christine said, looking at the beady black eyes of the gerbil. "Put Scooby back in his cage, Min, _after_ you throw my good tea towel in the trash. Next time I see you using one of my towels for a rodent nappy, it's coming outta your allowance."

"I won't. Promise." She glanced at Erik and said shyly, "Will you tuck me in tonight?"

He looked briefly at Christine who gave a slight nod. "Consider it done then."

"Great," and backed out of the room holding up one tiny paw of Scooby's in a wave. "Come on, Scoob. Let's go count our cereal. You get half."

"My daughter is not well known for her humble modesty when she wins," Christine said smiling at him. "You oughta see what a shark she is at Fish," and was surprised by Erik's answering laugh.

It was a wonderful laugh.

She looked at him with an accusatory gleam in her eye. "You let her win, didn't you?"

He stared at her innocently, but his eyes alight with mirth, gave him away. "Now what makes you think that?"

"You're a pushover, Girard. _I_ know that."

The four note beginning motif of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, filled the room, and Erik slipped his phone out of a pocket. "Yes?"

Christine sat there, unabashedly listening in on the one sided conversation, watching as the thin line of his mouth tightened grimly.

"I'm busy," he said shortly, his eyes roving around the room until they fell on her. His shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. "I said I'm busy, Carla."

Christine felt a nasty jolt at hearing that name, and got up from the table and began clearing it off, her movements agitated.

"You _what?_ " and his tone had changed from one of bored impatience to something else entirely.

Christine felt a chill at the deadly quiet in that voice. Erik had never shown anger when dealing with her or Min; impatience where she was concerned, yes, but never cold anger which was what he was exhibiting now.

"You had no right," he said in a dangerously low voice. He nodded his head, a jerky motion that revealed the controlled stiffness of his body. "And why would you think that will work with me?" He listened for a moment, his bearing one of quiet menace. "Because that's what it is and you know it."

Christine tipped the leftover cookies into the ceramic Humpty Dumpty jar that had belonged to her mother, breaking a few in the process. "You bitch," she whispered savagely beneath her breath, knowing how keen Erik's hearing was. He was going out to meet her, she realized, and the knowledge lay like a stone in her belly as she stared at his lanky form now held so rigidly.

"Where? No. Not there. The coffee shop." He glanced at Christine, the hard light in his eyes softening a little before he stood up and moved away. "There again you seem to be under the misapprehension that I give a damn. Who I spend time with is none of your concern." He looked at his watch. "Why not?" and sighed in frustration. "All right, all right. Give me the address." He listened for a moment, then replied in a clipped voice, "I'll be there in half an hour," and abruptly ended the call.

Erik went into his room and came back out with his jacket. He paused, eying Christine, his attitude one of weary acceptance.

"What's wrong?" she asked softly, choking down her disappointment. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, Girard, but I'm here if you wanna talk about it."

He opened his mouth to say something, but hastily closed it, having no idea where to start. "I have to go out," he said curtly, and left her standing there.

"Yeah, I gathered that much," she muttered, talking to the now empty room. She wandered over to the sink, staring blindly at the dishes piled there. So what? He was going to see Carla. Didn't sound the least bit romantic, but that could change, there being a fine line between anger and passion. Why do I care anyway? She can have him. She's obviously been chasing him since he started at LipSync, and maybe this time he would let himself be caught. If he didn't kill her first, she thought viciously as she began to do the washing up.

"Where'd Erik go?" Min came out of their room in her purple Sleeping Beauty pajamas, her damp hair combed straight back, showing off the fine bones of her face. Her girl was losing her baby fat.

"He had a...a friend who called and asked to meet him somewhere."

"They could have come here."

"No. I don't think so, Min," her mother replied stiffly.

Christine finished cleaning up the kitchen and joined her daughter in the living room for some television. They sat on the couch, Min curled up against her, just as they'd done since the girl was old enough to sit up.

"Mom?"

"Hmm?"

"Erik won't ever go away...will he?"

What to tell her? As well as she _thought_ she knew Erik, she really didn't know him at all. Only what her heart was telling her.

Hearts lied.

What to tell her?

"I don't know," Christine said finally. I do know we can count on one thing, though."

"What?"

"You and me, kiddo."

"I love you, Mom."

"I love you too, Minnie."

While she stared at the TV, her mind wandered far away from the show they were watching. He didn't seem all that interested in Carla, but when had negative thought ever stopped a man from an easy screw? She hadn't met one yet with much integrity when his third leg was doing the thinking. Just imagining Erik with Giudicelli caused a surge of pain to knife through her.

Because of Min, she told herself. Min loved Erik, and would be broken-hearted when he left. For he _would_ leave. It was inevitable. Girard was no different than the rest of them with his feet of clay. He didn't look like any other man that she knew, recalling his pitiful face, but that didn't stop some women from seeing what was extraordinary in him. Too bad for them that Carla had finally discovered it. She wondered fleetingly if Giudicelli knew what lived behind that mask?

The little girl turned and looked up at her mother. "Will he be back to tuck me in?"

"When did I become second class around here? Your old mother can do the honors just as well, can't she?" and chucked Min under the chin. "She's had loads of practice, so take it or leave it, kid."

"I'll take it," and held up a small hand for her mother to high five.

* * *

He stood outside the apartment wondering why in hell he had rushed over here. He had been much happier where he was when she called, but the mere mention of his mother, and that little matter of blackmail Carla was attempting, had brought him on the run. Still dancing to her tune when he had sworn never to do so again.

He laid on the door buzzer, and waited impatiently for her to answer it. Which wasn't long, as the door opened and a smiling Carla grabbed his hand and he allowed her to tug him into an apartment whose decor was tastefully and expensively decorated. A far cry from their own well used, lived-in home, whose warmth and acceptance he pulled up over himself like worn, comfortable clothing every time he entered it.

He let her lead him as his jaw dropped, and he manfully forced it closed again. She was dressed... _undres_ _sed,_ his mind whispered insidiously, in a filmy piece of rose silk which came nowhere close to hiding any of her...charms. The silky whatever ended well above her knees, revealing shapely thighs.

She smelled good too.

He was in trouble.

Carla was smiling at him, noting his tense demeanor...his deer-in-the-headlights look. He was so ripe for the plucking.

She led him to the couch and pushed him down on it. "Drink?" _Yes, my ugly, ugly man. Have several and you'll be more than ready to lock and load one for Carla._

"Can't get what you want head-on, so you're not above a little friendly coercion?"

"Wherever did you get that idea? Really, Erik, I'm hurt that you would think that of me!" her manner all phony innocence and wounded feelings.

Which he didn't buy.

"Does threatening to go to the papers ring any bells for you?"

"You misunderstood me then," she protested. "I meant, what if someone _else_ found out your identity and went to the media with it? Not me. I would never!"

"Didn't sound like that at all. However, we'll drop it for the moment and discuss my mother. Why did you tell her I wanted to see her?" He had recovered some of his equilibrium, and decided to keep it by looking only at her face.

Only her face.

This he could do.

Yes, he could.

But.

It had been a long time since he had seen what she had on display.

And she knew it.

Carla shrugged, the action baring one creamy shoulder. "She's kept in touch over the years. When I last talked to her, she sounded so depressed, I just couldn't _not_ tell her that you and I were going to make a trip soon to visit," she said defensively, getting ice out of the fridge.

Erik from his position on the couch, watched the sway of her hips as she moved to the kitchen counter and selected one of several bottles there. He swallowed hard, icy amusement jockeying uncomfortably with his arousal. "What are you going to do, Carla? Get me drunk and then take advantage of me?"

"Maybe," she said archly. "Got a problem with that?"

"Only the reason why."

"I knew you'd be upset with me for interfering, but I saw nothing wrong with letting her know you were alive and well. It's not exactly a secret, is it? Besides... it cheered her up a little," she pouted. "I meant no harm."

"I sincerely doubt that. You always did butt in where you weren't wanted, and not for anyone's benefit but your own. And when you couldn't find any advantage for yourself, you simply...left," the old bitterness rising up and nearly choking him at the memory of her defection.

She handed Erik a gin and tonic and sat down beside him, curling her legs beneath her and leaning against him. "I _tried_ to visit you in that horrible place! They said you didn't want to see me." She placed a hand on his chest and spread all five fingers out, caressing him ever so lightly with perfect scarlet nails. "I'm here now," she crooned. "Can't I make it up to you somehow?"

He took a ragged breath and forced himself to speak. "The way I heard it was quite different. _No one_ inquired about me, Carla," his eyes taking on that feral gleam which five years ago meant trouble for someone, "least of all you."

"I had to eat, Erik. No one was paying _my_ bills."

"Not even Piangi?"

She tossed back half of her drink. Him and his fucking one track mind. "That was over a long time ago," she said stiffly.

"Ah. _Now_ there is a little light at the far end of the tunnel. Feeling the need for a new benefactor?"

Bastard. She let it go. "Your mother told me she wrote you. Did she?" Carla asked, her manner casual.

"And just how does this concern you?"

"You've become such a cynic, Erik. You used to be so shy and sweet with me. Soo eager to please. As I recall, we were good together. In and out of the sack."

"Live the way I lived for three years, then come back and tell me you're unchanged," he said in a low voice.

"I want us to be friends again. Good friends...like we used to be," she said softly.

"Friends?" Erik snorted. "You don't know the meaning of the word. Now tell me what my mother really wants."

"How the hell would I know? You're her son, Erik. You can damn we'll figure it out! But she's not young anymore and she sounded ill." Carla reached out and wound her finger through a strand of his hair and gave it a gentle tug. "Come on. Why don't you and I go see her? Make her happy?"

"Why would I want to do that?" he replied with a sneer.

"Because I'm tired of blowing her off! She's _your_ goddamned mother! You deal with it!" She regretted her outburst almost as soon as the words left her mouth, and scooted closer to him. "Look, darling...we can get some time off. What do you say?"

He set his untouched drink on the end table, and Carla took that as her cue. When he turned back around, she threw her arms around his neck and brought his mouth to hers. At first he did nothing, temporarily startled into paralysis, well aware of Carla's manipulative ways, but as she moved her mouth on his, her tongue darted out and slid across his lips. Helplessly, he responded and kissed her back, one arm curling around her and pulling her close.

It had been a long dry spell for him. Hell. It had been a veritable drought. Holding a woman in his arms again was incredibly arousing- automatically provoking a response from him.

 _I'm here if you wanna talk about it._

His eyes flew open, and he blinked slowly at Christine's voice in his head, the arms holding him becoming even more slender, the head he cradled with one hand, suddenly curlier, with hair the color of fallow wheat.

 _Talk to me, Erik._

He wrenched his mouth away from Carla's. "Not now, damn it!" he growled.

"Yes, right now," Carla breathed in his ear, sucking the lobe into her mouth.

"Not you!"

"Well, of course it's me. Who else would it be?" she muttered, before putting the death knell to her planned evening of sex and more sex. "That little gold digger looking for a free ride?"

"One has to have actual gold to entice a _gold_ digger," he returned vaguely, annoyance now mixing with his lust and Christine's soft murmurs, still caressing his eardrums.

It was intruding on his eagerness, her warm supporting arms offering affection and... affection and... _No._ Not Christine. Carla. It was _Carla's_ arms, and he shook his head, trying to dislodge his roommate's soft wheedling voice out of his head.

Christine's lovely voice, with those deep undertones which produced that rich, underdeveloped sound. A voice that spoke of tenderness...

...and a concern that he hadn't felt from another in years.

He shook his head in denial, and pulled Carla closer as her tongue reamed the interior of his mouth.

But as his blood pulsed hotly through his veins, the vision of blonde hair and blue eyes encroached even further, continuing to batter at his defenses. His libido demanded action. His body wanted satisfaction. Carla owed him for running out on him when he wanted someone desperately to be there for him. Someone with compassion and concern for _his_ well-being.

A friend to help him through the endless days of torment, and nightmare infested hours before sunrise.

He got neither from Carla. He had remained alone, lost inside of his head with no one to cling to. Whatever fever in the blood he'd had for her, was over a long time ago.

Going any further than this, would only bring someone back into his life that was better out of it. He really didn't want anything more to do with Carla Giudicelli, and sex would only complicate that. Then, he would need TNT to blast her out of his life. But at the moment, knowing it really didn't make him feel any better.

One little boink.

Just one- to take the edge off.

His relationship with Christine had nothing to do with his activities outside of their apartment. He was a grown man, with a grown man's needs too long denied, and didn't answer to anyone but himself.

 _Will you tuck me in tonight, Erik?_

Another voice clamoring inside his head, had joined the first. Not a good thing with his track record. It was getting far too crowded in there as mother and daughter jostled for space.

Incredible.

The ladies de Chagny had effectively followed him here and shut down the works.

As if to reinforce his befuddled thoughts, he felt again Christine's soft hands holding a wash cloth to his forehead. Offering support as he heaved up his stomach. Tucked him in as he lay in her bed, her light scent surrounding him as he drifted off to sleep.

Carla would never have stayed for something so revolting.

Christine had. Wonder of wonders- _after_ seeing his wasted landscape of a face. And she was now stuck in his head, avidly watching the proceedings, staking _her_ claim.

Might as well hang a sign off of his dick- _no trespassing._ He was caught between a rock and a hard place. _A very hard place._

Carla graciously helped him make his decision. "We'll just consider this as picking up where we left off before you're... you're um...hospitalization. No harm done, right, darlin'?" she murmured against his lips.

"You mean _before_ the shock treatments they insisted on giving me?" Drawing upon all of his considerable will power, his hands came up and dragged Carla's arms from his neck as his nether regions twitched and yowled in protest. "I have to go," he managed to rasp, disgusted by his near capitulation to this man-eater. Again.

She raised her head, plump lips glistening, and stared at him balefully. "Let me guess. That little blonde bitch that leads you around by the... Oh, wait! You don't have a pair of those, do you?" she spat.

He cringed inwardly at that. At the moment, that particular part of his anatomy was blue and aching. He wouldn't want to be led anywhere using them.

She wondered how he could resist what she was offering. "You're nothing but a fool, Erik Girard! She's just using you as a handy replacement for the last-"

"I think you need to watch who you call a bitch, Carla. You are quite familiar with that state yourself," he replied, as he pushed her away and stood up on weak knees. "Five years ago you would never have kissed me like that! Remember? Anytime I tried, you pulled away and made a face like you were sucking on a lemon!" He jabbed a finger at his mask. "That was getting a little _too_ close to this, wasn't it? What has changed?"

"I made a mistake, all right?" she shouted. "I should have kissed you! I should have done a lot of things differently...b-but the day I saw you without the mask was-" She floundered for words, knowing she wasn't helping herself at all.

"Do you mean the day your curiosity got the better of you and you yanked it from my face? You could have died that day, you know...taking advantage of a man while he sought his pleasure."

"I know," she whispered, recalling his very formidable anger. "I know, I know. I regret that," and he snorted in disbelief. "No! It's true! Hell, I-I should have stuck around when you were taken away...and I didn't, but... I _have_ missed you, Erik."

"You missed my money, you mean. Too late for regrets now. Just stay the hell out of my life and my mother's.

"And Carla?" His eyes had taken on an odd glitter. "You can forget trying to blackmail me. It won't work, and you'll only make yourself an active enemy. Try to imagine Abba choosing between you and me. You don't want that, do you?" he inquired softly.

"No," she whispered again, shivering in fear and repressed sexual desire.

"Sorry? You said-"

"N-No. I don't want that," Carla replied, her defeat at his hands goading to her take-no-prisoners reputation. What she once had with him and couldn't seem to reclaim, was now more important for that very reason.

And Carla knew who to blame for his brand new indifference to her.

That little blonde leech _. That fucking parasite._

"We used to be so close! We can again," she pleaded, her eyes welling with angry tears.

"Poke yourself in the eye?" he inquired viciously. "I haven't forgotten what you and I meant to each other at one time." He strode to the door, his thwarted lust leaving him physically hot and throbbing, but his only emotion now was relief.

"And just _what_ was that?"

"Absolutely nothing," he proclaimed, and got the hell out of there.


	10. Play Fast and Loose

**Guest \- Thank you. You hope there's a happy ending? Me too ;)**

 **squishmich \- Erik's backstory _is_ coming. Promise. Eventually. Sorta. And yes to more about Christine's singing. Later. I know, I know. Always later. But... **

**You would shake a jar of coins at a woman in the throes of a lascivious dream? _Cool_ ;)**

 **This time around Erik is more confident. His voice and musicality in a modern day setting _would_ draw a following, I think, whether he wants it or not. Some women would be intrigued by the mask. Pathetic Erik is fun to read and write, simply to see him realize his dream of love and acceptance, but a more self-assured one with a side helping of vulnerability is good too. As for Erik with Carla, the man wanted a boink and didn't get one. May we have a moment of silence for a frustrated Erik?**

 **Very good.**

 **Moment of silence observed.**

 **Pit stains on a white shirt? *snort* But you are correct. Carla is like a bad case of the hives. Seemingly unending. As for the E/C dynamic being compared to R/C? Not even close. You haven't yet been treated to Erik with his nose buried (pun definitely intended) in a book ;)**

 **Thank you once again for the laughs!**

* * *

 ** _This chapter- Erik catches Christine red-handed. A discussion on the nature of friendship. A party in the kitchen, and a visitor._**

* * *

Christine washed and dressed for bed, throwing on whatever came to hand, which turned out to be a pair of soft flannel pajamas in red and black plaid. She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, hair pulled back in a tail, and smeared Aztec Secret Indian Clay for deep pore cleansing on her face, squinting at her reflection. She wrinkled her nose, turning her head from side to side and sniffed. She looked like a kabuki dancer.

What the hell.

Who would see her?

She went to her cure-all for periods or just being down in the dumps, deciding a chocolate chip cookie or maybe several, would perk her up. Chocolate always made her feel better- at least it did until the guilt set in from having indulged in the first place.

What the hell.

She padded out to the kitchen and had just reached for her first cookie, when she heard the scratch of a key in the lock. Surprised, she turned around and watched as Erik entered the short hallway.

He looked strangely at her, and said with tired amusement, "Is this the part in the movie where I catch you red-handed with your mitt in the cookie jar?"

Christine waggled a cookie at him. "Yep! Caught me eating my way through a depression. Guilt comes later, so watch out, Girard!"

"Duly noted," he replied dryly. "So what has you feeling down?"

"Hormones," she said vaguely.

"Ah," nodding his head sagely. "When in doubt, head for the hormone defense."

"Shut it, you," Christine said mildly. She was feeling better already. "I didn't think we'd be seeing you 'til sometime tomorrow. Wore it out already?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Erik's tone slightly aggressive.

"Nothing. Just that I assumed you would be... _busy_ for the entire night."

"Well, you assumed wrong," he replied curtly. "Is Araminta asleep? I promised to say goodnight."

Christine took a bite of her cookie and waved it toward their bedroom, scattering crumbs everywhere. "Help yourself. She might not be asleep yet."

He regarded her for a moment, until she began to feel a little self-conscious, then turned and walked to the bedroom. Erik paused before opening the door, unwilling to disturb a sleeping child, but a promise was a promise. He pushed the door open and entered the room, moving to the side of the bed where the girl lay, hesitating again. He watched her for signs of wakefulness and was rewarded when Min turned over and stared up at him.

"I knew you wouldn't forget," she whispered. "Every time my eyes tried to close, I made them stay open."

He went closer and leaned down, carefully arranging the blankets around her slight form, wrapping them snugly about her. That was what one did when tucking in a little girl. He remembered. "If I accomplished nothing else tonight, I would make sure that I did this," he said softly, awkwardly patting her shoulder. "Sleep well, child," and turned to go.

"Erik?"

"Yes?"

"Will you kiss me goodnight like my mom?"

For an answer he leaned down and lightly touched his cool lips to her forehead. "Good night."

She yawned in reply, murmuring, "I can close my eyes now," and turned over on her side.

He stood there a moment more, foolishly pleased by the girl's request. She liked him.

He walked slowly out to the kitchen where Christine was dunking a tea bag up and down in a mug. She looked at him. "Want some?"

"Huh?"

"Tea, Erik. Want some?"

At his slow nod she grabbed another mug, adding a teabag and boiling water from the kettle. She handed it to him, along with a bottle of squeeze lemon. "I don't know how you drink that in your tea, but to each their own, right?"

"Yes," and sat down across from her. He idly dipped the teabag up and down in his mug, adding a squirt of lemon to it. "She waited for me," he said in a quiet voice.

Christine pushed a plate of cookies toward him. "She said she was, although she usually falls asleep the minute her head meets the pillow."

"She asked me for a kiss," he said casually, never taking his eyes off of his tea. To him though, it felt ridiculously good.

"Min really likes you, Erik. She looks up to you.

"In more ways than one," she teased.

He raised his head at that. "I'm not worthy of anyone's admiration, Christine, least of all hers."

"You'll have to take that up with my daughter. Actually...I agree. You're good with her."

He shrugged. "She is a sweet child. I am fond of her as well."

"I know you are," she said, eying him closely. "Is everything okay? You look a little worn."

 _Oh, you don't know the half of it._ "I'm fine," and took a sip of his tea.

Not really believing him, she persisted. "What I said before you left still applies. If you want to talk, I've got two good ears."

"I am fine," he reaffirmed, not wishing Christine to upset his current mood. He was feeling better now, his libido no longer clamoring for attention, having subsided on the way home.

Home.

He looked around the tiny kitchen, noting the tired paint and worn linoleum. It was the closest thing to a home he'd had in a very long time. But it wasn't the drab apartment that made it so. It was Christine and her daughter who made him feel like he belonged somewhere. He didn't want to acknowledge it, but there it was.

"What color would look good in here?" he asked abruptly, studying the walls.

"Color? What are you talking about?"

"Painting the kitchen...perhaps the other rooms as well. What color?" he repeated, watching her face.

Christine shrugged. "Okay. I'll play along. Mm...lemony yellow for the kitchen. Uh...a nice neutral shade for the living room." She snapped her fingers and looked at him with growing enthusiasm. "I have just the color! Cinnamon sugar for the walls and vanilla trim for the living room. Hey! This is fun!"

If he could get her to smile at him like that all of the time, he would renovate the entire apartment. "Lemony yellow as in the citrus fruit? Cinnamon... _sugar_? Vanilla, Christine? You are describing food. Are you hungry, by any chance?"

She ignored this as she reached for another cookie. "I've wanted to give this place a shot in the arm for a long time now, but never had the funds. Still don't," she added, her now buoyant mood deflating a little.

"I will pay for the paint if you give me a hand with the application of it. Deal?"

Christine was baffled by the flood of joy which left her a little light headed. Just like that, he walks in and brightens her mood without even trying. She shouldn't be so damned happy just because he's the one to do it.

Must be the chocolate.

"Deal." She held her hand out to him. "Let's shake on it."

He met her hand with his own, clasping it lightly and pumping it once.

Her hand in his felt good, his grasp cool and dry. She hated sweaty man's hands. Feeling flustered and not knowing why, Christine shoved her chair back and took a turn around the room, picturing sunny walls, bright and cheerful even on the dreariest day.

She turned a radiant smile on him and Erik wondered how he could make her do it again. He decided then and there that he wanted more smiles. He rose to his feet, joining her and found himself blurting, "Maybe even some new flooring in here. I keep catching a toe in that tear by the door. It is the reason I fell that night."

Christine grinned evilly. "Oh, you fell all right, Girard, but it had more to do with your liquid refreshment than the state of the floor. You were plastered, bud." She sobered as she looked up at him. "You would really do this? Spend your hard earned money on sprucing this place up?"

He loomed over her, wondering not for the first time, why she had paste smeared all over her face. It was drying in cracks, like dirt will from lack of rain, except for a largish blob near her mouth. It actually looked painful. He would say nothing though. It was safer for him that way. After all, who was he to denigrate her appearance? He shrugged. "Why not? I live here too. Is that a yes?"

Happy for no discernible reason other than a face lift for the apartment, she squealed a yes and flung herself into his arms. "You know what, Girard? I think you're the best roommate two girls ever had!" and braced her hands lightly on his shoulders before going way up on her tippy toes and kissing his cheek.

"Can I have that in writing... just in case?" feeling mentally off balance from her gratitude and his reaction to it.

He was stunned by her action and couldn't move from the feel of her lips imprinted on his mask- wishing it could have been his actual skin. He put a tentative finger up to his cheek, imagining her lips there. It would tickle a little bit, that was certain, the tender skin on his face more or less untouched by anyone but him. It would be a brush of her mouth, ghosting over highly sensitive nerve endings. Her bravery to kiss him there, would mean more to him than the actual kiss itself, feeling like a sweet benediction. He dared to think these thoughts before meeting her eyes.

He wasn't at all prepared for the look of horror staring back at him, and jerked away from her. He was hideous up close- he knew that, but it still hurt for her to approach _him_ and respond in such a way.

Christine was staring at the mask, at the exact spot where her lips had just been, looking at the blob of clay now sitting there. "Shit!" and ran for the bathroom.

Numbly, he followed her, ready to apologize for being so freakishly ugly that he had made her physically ill. "Christine-"

"I (garbled) 'ou...didint (garbled) I 'ave _shet_ (garbled) overr I facce." She was bent over the sink frantically splashing water on her face, and trying to talk at the same time.

"Why in 'ell didn' 'ell me, 'rik?" scrubbing vigorously at the dried mess. "Ist (garbled) inna congcreed!"

His head was tilted, mouth hanging open as he concentrated hard on gobbledegook, translating it into English, unaware that he was repeating it out loud. " 'I can't believe... you didn't tell me...um, I have _shit_ all over my face! Why in hell didn't you _tell_ me, Erik? It's dried into concrete!' " he said triumphantly, in a perfect facsimile of her voice, right down to pitch and intonation.

Spooked by his uncanny ability at mimicry, she nevertheless raised her dripping face and looked accusingly at him. "Isn't that what I just _said_? Are you _mocking_ me?"

He grabbed a fluffy white towel off the rack, and began to dry her off. "I am not mocking you, Christine," he soothed. "Merely trying to understand you with your head in the sink."

"I forgot about my facial and it hardened into...into _clay_. Aztec facial, my ass! Only if I want to end up looking like a dried up Aztec mummy!"

"Hold still," he commanded her.

His hands were gentle as he wiped her face, and she stood quietly letting him swipe the towel over her nose, cheeks and chin. The towel stilled as Christine used him for balance by placing her hands on his chest, her only conscious thought, to push Erik away as he hesitantly leaned down ever closer to her mouth. They should have just called it a night by then and gone their separate ways.

She _did_ chuckle a little, albeit, nervously, and even attempted to move slightly back from him. For some strange reason, she found her hands on his shoulders, _how did they end up there?_ her fingers clutching him. Erik wasn't being sensible either, when he proceeded to pull her into his arms.

"Here now. You're slightly off-balance," he said cautiously, sounding very much like a man approaching a hungry bear with a juicy fish, or a hungry Christine with a chocolate chip cookie. Determinedly, he drew her in, his hold tightening.

Off balance? She was? And mentally shrugged, managing to compound the problem by going into his arms quite willingly, even helping things along by rising up on her toes and meeting him halfway.

 _Silly me._

With slightly parted lips, her arms moved independently of her will, or so she tried to convince herself, before latching themselves firmly around his neck. Her first official action in his arms, was to thread her fingers through his hair.

Well well. Just like her dream, but better. Hair so soft. So soft.

 _Take that, My Little Pony!_

 _Erik..._

She had no idea what she was doing.

He didn't have a clue either.

Erik noted with awe where her hands had wandered, and bent obligingly down so she wouldn't have to struggle to hold onto him. He shivered as her fingers combed through his hair, reminding himself to breathe, dispensing with the towel altogether as he cupped her freshly washed face in his hands and bravely settled his lips on hers in a gentle kiss.

A kiss.

He wanted more of them. _Smiles and kisses from Christine,_ his interior voice hissed in a sibilant whisper. He could build a world around those things, and in the next instant, squashed the hell out of that thought.

Erik had never believed in fairy tales and wasn't about to start now. He was way out on that hypothetically weak tree limb, thirty feet in the air, far from the stony ground. If he slipped here, the fall would kill him. He was ready to break away if she showed even the smallest inclination to struggle.

His lips moved shyly across hers, his spare length pressing her against the sink, which was digging painfully into the small of her back. Her mouth opened beneath his, and he lightly touched his tongue to Christine's, his hands leaving her face and traveling down to her backside, cupping her buttocks and pulling her up tight against him. His mind gratefully slid back into the hazy lust which was becoming harder to deny, and his hand slipped beneath her pajama top, his fingers inching closer and closer to his destination.

Oh! she thought fleetingly, wriggling nearer to that questing hand as it brushed a nipple and retreated, as though waiting for a reaction, good or bad from her. _Come back_ _!_ her mind screamed, and pushed herself into his erection, grinding away happily.

The kiss deepened as they each breathed the other in...tasting. Exploring.

Their bodies fit together like pieces of a puzzle, developing a natural rhythm as they held tightly to each other. She knew about pounding someone into the mattress, but pounding someone into a sink? Her back was protesting loudly, but Christine merely told it to shut up and stop whining. She broke away from his mouth, muttering against his lips, "What are we doing?"

"Frottage," he responded hoarsely, and pushed his hips against her, drawing moans from them both.

"Not that. _Us_ ," she managed, before his mouth swooped down on hers again.

The intensity of the moment ratcheted higher and higher, until it became too much for a very frazzled Erik. What was worse, or better, as the case may be, Christine slipped her hand down between their bodies, laying a warm palm against his arousal, her fingers curling around it, smiling when it twitched in response as though trying to escape its cloth prison

He tried. Oh, how he tried, but after a few minutes of her considerable attention to his very rigid anatomy, along with the excitement of hot, open mouthed kisses, he gave in, unable to stop the speeding train hurtling down the track. It had simply been too long of a time for him, his control overworked twice in one night.

A few well placed caresses, and he was gone.

With a low growl, Erik tore away from her mouth, his arms tightening around her, his breath rasping in her ear. He buried his face in Christine's neck and shuddered against her.

His eyes were screwed tightly shut as he went from euphoric to extreme embarrassment. He had shot his wad like a damned schoolboy. His voice emerged muffled from her shoulder. "That was...tacky." He squirmed a little. _And sticky._

"That bad, huh? Gee, from your reaction, I thought you were going to say, 'yeah, mama, let's do 'er again.' Not tacky," she murmured, her tone light and teasing.

He lifted his head and looked at her, his trembling legs threatening to dump him on the floor. "It _was_ good, Christine. Trust me... it was."

She reached up and smoothed back a lock of his hair that had fallen across one eye. "It's been awhile, hasn't it?" she said, surprised that this was so. "I thought you and Carla-"

"Carla? Whatever gave you that idea?" knowing how close it came to being true.

"Well, uh, for one thing, I can smell her on you...her perfume, and I once found a pair of lady's panties in your room when I went in to get your sheets, so I figured... um-"

"Nothing happened tonight, Christine," he said with conviction, "but not for lack of Carla trying."

"And you were able to hold her off?" her tone one of pleased surprise.

"Have you ever heard voices in your head?"

"No. Can't say that I have."

"Well, I did, and they kept insisting that I leave," his wry smile a puzzle to her. "And the underwear? She stuck them in a pocket one time while I was playing cards. That's all," his hand dropping down between them and fingering the waistband of her pajama bottoms. "Enough about her," he whispered. "Allow me to return the favor," and before she could lodge a protest, his hand had slipped inside.

"That's not necessary, Erik," she said faintly, not really trying to push him away.

He was having none of it, and Christine tried one last time to convince him of his folly by plucking weakly at his fingers, which were plumbing depths in her she hadn't known existed. Those lovely, knowledgeable super-sized fingies of his. "You don't have to...to-

"'Really, G-Girard. I-

" _O_ _h-_

"Oh... _my_.

"Oh, yesss. That's... _nice._ "

She scooted closer to him, entirely forgetting her totured back. She squirmed against his hand as it moved eagerly across her hot and needy flesh, soothing away some of the leftover ache in her heart. His mouth once more latched onto hers, kissing her thoroughly and deeply, like a man proving his lips are better than anyone else's, and Christine hissed her pleasure, rubbing herself against his stroking digits as they made themselves at home inside of her. His thumb was... was _amazing_! And the other four fingers were no slouches either. She rocked her hips as she sought her release, her tongue trying repeatedly to suck his down her throat. His strong arms held her securely upright as she felt the first hard ripples of her climax, and broke apart, her legs turning to mush. A heartfelt sigh slipped out of her mouth as she hummed in delight.

He placed tender kisses on her jaw, before straightening up and allowing her head to fall forward and thump on his breastbone. "It's been a while for me too," she mumbled into his shirt.

Erik held her close as her breathing returned to normal, in no hurry to release her, despite the mess in his underwear. He was beginning to itch.

She finally looked up at him, smiling sleepily, her arms somehow finding themselves wrapped around his narrow waist. "That was lovely," she whispered, "and just what I needed. Does this make us friends with benefits?"

"Why, yes. I believe we are now considered...uh... bene _buddies_ ," he returned, his hands moving comfortingly on her back.

"Uh huh...how 'bout romper roomies?" she contributed, snorting inelegantly.

"Friendmance," he added, his crooked smile making an appearance.

"Oh, I like that one!" she giggled. "Okay, okay. How 'bout-"

"Mom? I have to-

"Pee."

They both froze as Min stopped and stared at the two of them wrapped tightly in each other's arms, looking like a body with two disparate heads. They broke apart guiltily, Erik looking from mother to daughter and back to mother, before taking the low road, and slinking out of the bathroom. He mumbled a hasty good night, as he left his dignity and a hot shower behind.

"Nothing fainthearted about you, Girard," she sneered to his retreating back, watching him make a beeline for his bedroom.

"What were you and Erik doing?"

Christine's mouth opened and closed several times before she came up with an answer. I had s-something in my...something in my eye. Yes! I had something in my eye, and...and Erik got it out." _Oh, please, Christine. That line's been used_ _and abused_ _._

"Oh. But you were laughing," she accused, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"Ah...no. Not laughing. It was... relief! Yes! That's what it was." Boy, was it ever. Drowsy _and_ sated. Feelin' fine, thank you very much. She herded her daughter to the toilet, and spoke soothingly, "I'll ah, just get outta here, 'kay? Let you take care of business."

The little girl nodded, and Christine scuttled out of the bathroom. Min settled herself on the toilet and rolled her eyes heavenward. "Geez. Grown ups."

Christine stood in the hall, thoughtfully regarding Erik's closed door, lamenting the end to their stolen moment, just as she decided it couldn't go any further. She wasn't going to sneak around the apartment, waiting for a chance to tumble into bed with Girard and go at it like demented bunnies.

 _Nothing_ would be going on. She would make sure of it.

She sighed mournfully as she lingered a moment more, glancing longingly at his door. But what a waste of all that manhood.

Yeah, and don't forget them magic fingers, she thought with longing.

* * *

The next day went by exceedingly slow, her shift taking forever to end, thanks to a rather sore back, which brought to mind that very pleasant interlude in the bathroom. Which in turn, led to smutty daydreams about the two of them moving it to the bedroom and making love in that large bed of his. There, Erik actually did pound her into the mattress. Somehow, she always managed to cut that particular dream off at the knees before reaching the satisfying conclusion. If she didn't, she would be attacking him some night while he slept innocently in his bed.

When Christine got home, she was going to speak with him about what had happened the night before. She didn't regret it. Far from it, but it had to be a one-time thing...for all of their sakes. She wasn't ready for another relationship so soon after leaving one, and Min didn't need the emotional impact of losing someone she held dear, due to another failed relationship of her mother's.

That's what she told herself.

When she opened their apartment door, it was to find Erik standing at the kitchen table, studying paint chips. Every shade of yellow was there- among them, pale flaxen, creamy butter, the orangey-yellow of saffron, golden honey.

And muted gold...the color of Erik's eyes as they looked last night, dark with passion and strangely beautiful to her as they shone like old coins from behind the mask.

"What's all this?" she inquired.

He had glanced at them as they came in the door, his heart speeding up as he thought of Christine and himself wrapped around each other, mouths fused together, his fingers stroking her...Christine flying apart in his arms as he brought her to completion.

"This is every color of yellow the paint store had," he said, feigning a tranquility he didn't feel. "I wasn't sure which one suited your needs, so I brought them all." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a silver bracelet, the tiny charms a varied mix of red lacquered lips and musical instruments surrounding the words LypSinc. He held it out to Min. "For you."

She came forward and took it from his hand. "Thanks, Erik! Look, Mom," and she held it out for her mother to admire. "I'm gonna put it on right now," and started for her mother before reversing course. "I love it!" Min said, putting her small arms around Erik and hugging him tightly. "Will you fasten it for me?"

For an answer, he took the bracelet from Min and secured it around her thin wrist. "You will have to grow into it a little, Araminta. It's very loose, so be careful it doesn't slide off."

The little girl nodded as she regarded her treasure. "Wait till Angie sees it!" and left the adults awkwardly standing there.

Christine was the first to break the tense silence. "That was nice of you," she said quietly.

He nodded, wanting to reassure himself that she didn't regret that very sweet, very hot moment. "Look, uh...about last night," he began.

"Save it. If you're going to apologize, I'm not listening. I enjoyed myself and except for getting caught like some half-assed teenager, I have no regrets, but...it can't continue."

"I understand. Not really your usual type, am I?" his tone a little bitter.

"No, it isn't that at all, so stop right there! Believe it or not, I happen to like you just the way you are. The thing is... I'm not ready for any entanglements at the moment. I have to get my head together and stop looking for a man at the end of the rainbow. The only one who can make me happy...is me."

" _Can_ we go back to the way it was before?"

She shrugged. "It has to. I'm not going to sneak around my daughter with you, Erik.

"Much as I would like to," she added truthfully. "But remain friends? Sure."

"I understand," he said again. "No benefits." He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked down at his scuffed boots, rocking on the balls of his feet. "I'll take the friend part. The closest I ever came was Nadir, and as you well know, there is very little benefit to that."

"That's why we get along so well, Erik. We're both members of F.A.N."

"Come again?"

"Friends Against Nadir," she responded with an easy grin.

"Yes, we are united against Nadir, and no more assignations in the bathroom- or any other room, for that matter. Got it in one." He stood back from the table. "Come and look over these chips and tell me which color you like best. I'll get the paint tomorrow and we can get started this weekend."

"Wait a minute! You're not going to argue even a little in favor of continuing? We did kind of start something last night."

"And you are now the devil's advocate?"

"Of course not! But you gave up too easily. I wasn't expecting that," she said perversely.

"A one time encounter does not an affair make, Christine."

"You would know, Yoda."

He simply stared at her, as if likening her mind to the sharpness of a bowling ball.

"Don't look at me like that! Yoda... little green guy with humongous ears? You know...Star Wars? You kinda sounded like him just now."

"Yes, I know. I am not a complete movie illiterate. My-" He stopped, not bothering to finish the sentence.

"Your what?"

"My _movie_ knowledge isn't perfect, but I am familiar with some."

"Okayy. So you're cool with a platonic relationship?"

"I never said that."

"Damn you! You did so, Erik."

"No, I didn't, Christine. I said I understood the reason. I _didn't_ say I agreed with it."

"Then why not argue _for_ it?"

He looked up from the table, one corner of his mouth lifting. "If I insisted on continuing what we began, what would you do?"

"Throw your ass out," she said promptly,

"Yes. And I have no wish to break up our little family."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

She looked at him, her eyes narrowed in thought. "You know, Erik...you're different."

"You really are observant," he jeered.

"No. I wasn't talking about your looks. I meant your attitude. Nothing like Nadir's."

"Thank you?" he answered, obviously enjoying himself now.

"I think we'll keep you," Christine said magnanimously.

"That's very generous," he returned dryly, not wishing to end their strange friendship by pointing out that the lease was in his name. Even so, the rigid set of his shoulders relaxed. "Now how about looking over these paint chips? Pick one, and we'll get started this weekend."

"It's kind of close to Thanksgiving, isn't it?"

"So it is, but it's not a large area. We can have it done and everything back in place in one day."

She regarded him hopefully. "What're your plans for turkey day?"

"I don't have any," he replied honestly. He never did, usually spending the day alone, opening a can of something unappealing, but quick.

"Well, you do now, Girard. Once we get the kitchen done, you and I are going shopping for the biggest, baddest Birdzilla in this town!"

"For three people?" he protested, even as he felt a warmth spreading in his veins at the thought of the holiday being spent with _Erik's_ little family _._

"Leftovers. Lots and lots of leftovers," she grinned.

* * *

Saturday had arrived, rainy and cold. Christine got out her battered pan and made a pot of oatmeal for their breakfast, insisting that Erik sit down and eat a bowl too, pointing out that he needed something to stick to his prominent ribs. Min, the ever-present bracelet tinkling merrily on her wrist, kept him entertained, barely stopping to take a breath, but he seemed to take it in stride as he listened seriously to her.

Christine dressed in old jeans and a white shirt Nadir had left behind, helped Erik lay newspaper everywhere. He began on the ceiling, giving it a coat of fresh white, while she started on the walls. They worked in silence for a time, Christine singing along to the radio tuned to an oldies station.

" _I can't get no satisfaction. No, no, no."_ She heard a male throat clearing, and whipped around to find Erik watching her.

"And whose fault would that be?" he asked softly.

"I take full responsibility," she mumbled, and turned back to the wall she was painting. "I can't seem to get that song out of my head."

"You have what is known in the business as S.S.S," he informed her.

"Ah...let me guess. Stop Singing Shit."

"Close...but no. It stands for Stuck Song Syndrome, and is quite painful until it goes away."

"Painful, huh?"

"Yes. For all of us who have to listen to it over and over and over."

Just to be annoying, Christine proceeded to sing it non-stop, even working in a few sour notes, but Erik was more than ready for her, pretending indifference, even as he winced every single time she hit the wrong pitch. As the afternoon wore on, she often stopped to watch as he painted his way around the kitchen ceiling. He was dressed in... she had squinted until she was cross-eyed.

Tuxedo trousers?

She found herself staring again and again at the black satin stripe which ran down the outside seams, a stray thought chasing itself round and round. Why did the idea of a formally dressed Erik ring a bell?

She eyed the white button down, shirttail hanging out, the sleeves rolled back to the elbows, revealing his skull tats livid against pale skin, and willed the memory to show itself. It was nearly there, before diving once more into the murk. Frustrated, her eyes fell to the ever present motorcycle boots. He looked like an escapee from a wedding in Hell.

She glanced down at her sloppy jeans, over-sized shirt, and dirty sneaks with a hole in one toe, before looking back up at Erik. "Where's your cummerbund, Girard?"

"With my silk gloves and top hat, where else, de Chagny?" he retorted, moving the roller smoothly along the ceiling, the clean white, a bright flowing ribbon of paint.

"In all your odd jobs, you ever work as a butler in an uber swanky townhouse?"

"Butler?" Erik said, turning and regarding her with amusement. "No, madame," he intoned in a snobby, severely stuck-up fashion. "I cannot say that I have."

"All right," she replied in resignation, dabbing at a blob of yellow on the baseboard. "I'll bite. Why are you wearing formal pants to a painting party?"

His sigh was that of a man having trouble explaining a simple fact to a dimwit. "Because I do not want to get paint on my good clothes, _Christine_."

"In the real world, what you're wearing now would be considered your good clothes, _Erik_."

"Not for me. I have no need for these, therefore they are expendable."

"Sure. That makes sense. Ever hear of Goodwill?" she muttered, admiring his long legs and acknowledging the fact that he literally had no hips or ass. What in hell was holding up his pants? She snorted. Why, the world's smallest belt, what else? The ceilings in the old building were at least ten feet high, and she got a crick in her neck looking up at him. If he had been a little taller though, he could have dispensed with the ladder altogether.

He painted as he seemed to do everything else- neatly and efficiently. She looked closely at the yellow paint spatters surrounding her and stuck her tongue out in his direction. Yes, sirree. He was neatly efficient when he painted, and dressed to the nines while doing it. His very oddness was endearing in a way. She shook _that_ annoying observation clean out of her head.

 _Not_ interested.

Christine could hear giggles and squeals of breathless laughter coming from their bedroom. Min's friend from a few streets down was visiting, and the two of them were playing dress up in Christine's old clothes and costume jewelry.

"Go ahead and ask him," Angie hissed.

"No. I won't," Min replied stubbornly.

"I'll bet he will, if you ask him nicely. Don't you wanna know?"

"Uh uh. _You_ do."

There were more hushed whispers, to which both Erik and Christine listened closely, fairly certain what they were arguing about.

Curiosity about the mask.

"Sometimes their need to know is greater than their common sense," he said, not looking at her, "but she is just a child and doesn't know any better."

"Are you implying what I think you're implying?"

"Which is?"

"People have actually tried to forcefully remove your mask?"

"Yes."

"Have they ever been successful?" Christine asked, going to the fridge for two bottles of water.

"Yes."

"And?"

"They never got the opportunity again," his voice pleasant, but raising the hairs on her neck.

She slowly walked over to the ladder and looked up at him. "What are you saying, Erik? You made them disappear for good? Cement shoes and a watery end like the mob?" only half joking.

His head snapped up in surprise. "Made them disappear? What makes you say that?" He stared at her as if she were a fuzzy little dog ready to bite, as he made his way down the ladder until he was standing beside her.

She shrugged. "It's kind of silly, I guess. It's the way you said it though. You sounded scary there for a minute." She lunged playfully at him, and her fingers connected lightly with his side. "Gotcha!"

His reaction was immediate, as he made a sound suspiciously like a laugh and twisted away from her. "Yes. Silly."

"You're ticklish," she accused him, and before he could stop her she had both hands on him. He was mortified when a high pitched squeal of laughter exploded from his mouth, as her fingers raked unmercifully up his ribs. "Was that a _giggle,_ Erik? The man who gives rocker groupies everywhere heart palpitations, has the gigglies?"

Breathless with laughter, he had managed to put the table between him and his tormentor, eyes alight with mirth, when Min and Angie clomped out to the kitchen in their borrowed finery. "What's goin' on?" Min demanded, watching the two adults circling the table.

Christine halted in her tracks and looked at her quarry. "Saved by a child, but you won't be so lucky next time, Girard." She picked up a bottle of water and took it to him. "Here. You look like you need it," she said grinning.

The look he gave her promised retaliation at some future date as he took the water, his paint speckled fingers brushing hers. He surveyed the two girls. "Who are these lovely ladies and what have you done with Araminta and Angela?" he asked solemnly.

Angie giggled, her thin face flushed rosy. She elbowed Min in the side. " _Ask_ him," she hissed.

Erik casually unscrewed the cap on his bottle of water and took a healthy drink, his bony Adam's apple jittering up and down, Angie watching him in fascination. He looked at the two girls from his imposing height, bracing himself. "Ask me what?"

Min glanced at Angie and took a deep breath. "Can you get another LipSync bracelet, Erik? F-For Angie?"

Christine let out the breath she'd been holding. They had both been silly, it seemed.

"That was a promotion the club ran, and I'm afraid there aren't anymore," he replied, watching the girl's face fall in disappointment. "Perhaps you will like the next one though. A tee shirt, I believe, with the club's logo printed on the front."

"Yeah, that would be great," Angie mumbled, looking shyly at Erik.

"Uh, Min? You girls go and play now, 'kay?"

"Come on, Ange," Min said, grabbing the other girl by the arm. Secretly, Min was content that her friend wasn't getting a charm bracelet like hers. It was special because Erik had given it to her.

With one last longing glance at Min's bracelet, Angie followed her out of the room.

Later, after her friend had gone home, Min approached Erik as he was cleaning up. The ceiling had a fresh coat of paint, and the walls were nearly done.

"Angie really likes you."

"She does?"

"Uh huh. She said you're cool like Jack Skellington." At his silence, she added, "Nightmare Before Christmas? I have the movie and we can watch it together. Okay?"

"Sure. Whenever you like," Erik replied, amused that he was not only cool, but this dear child found nothing wrong with comparing him to a skeleton. True though it was.

"Erik? Uh...did you ever ride a motorcycle?" Min asked, staring curiously at the lurid tattoo on his right forearm.

"Yes."

"Wow," Min whispered in awe. "Did you go real fast?"

"Yes."

Christine wisely noticed his suddenly grim mouth and stiff posture, and headed her daughter off from anymore questions. "Ah, Min, I don't think Erik wants bothered right now."

"That means I should take myself off for a while, doesn't it?"

"What a smart girl I have. Set the table, please," and put down her paint brush, standing back to admire the walls. The room already looked much better. Sunshine all the time now. She went to the stove and stirred the pot of chile simmering there.

Christine turned to Erik who was gathering up the newspapers covering the floor. "Just so you know... she can annoy her mother with too many questions. Sometimes kids step on toes without meaning to, but you're good with them, Erik. I think you'd make a great father."

"What child would want me as a parent?" his tone wistful.

Christine snorted. "Any child that likes to be spoiled, that's who!"

Min, hearing this, sidled up to him and hugged his arm, gazing up at him. "That would be me... _Daddy_. And I would love a kitten!"

"And that's only the beginning of her list, Girard. Wait till she gets to the pony!" Christine laughed.

Knowing she was teasing him, didn't make it any less sweet. "If I don't get any other offers, I just might take you up on that," his large hand settling on top of Min's head.

A flurry of light knocks sounded at the front door, and Christine gestured to her daughter. "All right, you little suck up, go answer it."

Min opened the door, and immediately started squealing. She threw herself at the well dressed man standing there, and he dropped the shopping bag he'd been holding and caught her, lifting her high in the air. "Uncle Phil! Mom, it's Uncle Phil!"

Christine looked from a suddenly austere Erik back to her former brother-in-law. "I can see that. Phil. Well, this is a surprise!"


	11. Love is Blind

**squishmich- You're right about the legalese in rental agreements, but it's the prerorgative of the landlord to grant improvements to a tenant if they choose to. An amicable relationship certainly helps, and in this case, the landlady knows Erik's work ethic and considers it a plus. (besides, I vouchsafed for him ;)**

 **Frottage. All I can say is, thank God for Google! Now we can all be as smart as Erik, even Christine. Good luck using that particular word in everyday conversation. I'd love to be a fly on the wall when you drop that baby into a sentence. Maybe _they'll_ have to Google it :)**

 **Oh yes. They're well on their way to a meaningful relationship. They just don't realize it yet. They're both gun shy, Erik for obvious reasons, and Christine is cynical about her chances to find a forever man, having been burned twice already. But they _do_ have this annoying little spark that keeps bouncing back and forth between them. **

**Which means that there will be more of those naughtier bits; it is after all a romance, but nothing I would consider too risque. There's worse on network channels in prime time, so no worries there. Also, a couple of later chapters manage to tip over into some fairly heavy angst. First and foremost though, this is a humorous tale, so the emphasis is on the slightly goofier aspects of life with E/C.**

 **Thank you, squishmich, for the visual of you reading about Christine and her facial, while sitting there wearing yours. Too funny. Life imitating art or art imitating life?**

 **FYI- Chapter 12 will have a little more on facials. Just wanted to give you a heads up on that.**

* * *

 ** _This chapter- Erik feels redundant. Min shows her creative side. An offer of tea, and a massage._**

* * *

Christine stole a quick glance at Erik, taking note of his rigid form and forbidding mouth as he observed the happy reunion taking place. She was surprised he wasn't circling the newcomer with stiff legs and flattened ears. To make it worse, she had the bizarre notion that he was about to growl and bare his teeth at de Chagny.

Keeping a weather eye on her roommate, she gave her ex-brother-in-law an affectionate hug. "This is great, Phil. How the heck have you been?"

"Can't complain, but I thought a visit to you and my favorite niece was long overdue. You get prettier every time I see you, Minnie," he declared, the little girl flushing with pleasure.

""You'll be giving her a swelled head, and there won't be any living with her," Christine protested, as she and Min fussed over the new arrival.

Erik had stepped back against the wall, watching this display with curiosity and aversion. Philippe de Chagny was everything he was not. Handsome. Personable.

Phil kept one eye on the tall gangling figure in the corner, wondering where the down and out actor was hiding. Christine seemed to have an affinity for men more than slightly off-color. And this one had more than his fair share, splattered with white paint on black formal trousers and wearing...

Phil squinted one way then the other. Something a little off about this one.

And he would get to the bottom of it before the day was out.

"Hey, lucky you! You're just in time for some of my bleepin' hot chili."

"I remember it well," Phil said dryly. One of the first meals you ever cooked, and as I recall, it also doubled as paint remover."

"On second thought, none for you," she grinned.

Phil gestured to the shopping bag near the door; the one that Min was staring at with such avid interest. "All right, little girl... go have a look inside."

Min squealed in childish delight at the British Beefeater bear and London charm bracelet which included a tiny silver Big Ben and London Eye. "It's awesome, Uncle Phil!" and she hugged him, before going over to Erik and showing it to him. He nodded woodenly, saying nothing, and Min's ready smile, faltered and went out. She looked up with troubled eyes at her friend.

Christine's mouth thinned at Erik's sudden resemblance to the Grim Reaper, as he stood dark and silent against the wall. She took Phil by the hand, leading him over to the other man. "I'd like you to meet my roommate and all around nice guy, Erik Girard. Erik, this is my former brother-in-law, Min's uncle, and all around nice guy, Philippe de Chagny."

Both men had done a quick appraisal of the other. Phil schooled his features to show very little emotion as the man observing him with baleful eyes, allowed a cold smile to lift one corner of his mouth. Not a smile, he amended. More like a snarl. But what had seemed odd ten feet away, became even more peculiar. He wore a mask like some kind of overgrown trick or treater. Regardless, he held out his hand, Erik hesitating only a second before reciprocating, and applying just enough pressure to the other man's hand, to watch his eyes widen in surprise.

"It's a pleasure, de Chagny. Here long?"

To Christine, it was Erik-speak, and translated, went something like this: ' _I don't like you._ _Do not linger here_.'

"Long enough, I suppose," Phil replied, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

Christine heard, _'I don't like you._ _My_ _business is none of yours,_ _Leatherface_.'

"Oh? To do what?" Erik politely inquired, but Christine wasn't fooled. More Erik-speak... ' _If it has a_ _nything to do with the inhabitants of this apartment,_ _you must go through me_ _.'_

Phil frowned, wondering what the hell Christine had stepped in this time.

"I don't think that's any of our concern, Erik," she said in a warning tone.

"It's all right, Christine," Phil said quietly, and to Erik, "Just some unfinished business I need to clear up," trying not to wince as he removed his hand from that powerful grip.

Her eyes kept darting from Erik to Phil and back again, not caring at all for Erik's shitty attitude. If she didn't know better, she'd think he was jealous. Possessive? Yep. Neither man had looked away, and she was clueless as to what was going on in their prickly male brains. Why don't they just beat their chests and be done with it? Or maybe Erik could mark his territory, _then_ chase Phil away, snarling and biting at his heels.

That should make him feel better.

Their gazes locked, and Christine asked pleasantly, "Can I see you alone for a sec?" jerking her head to the back hallway. "Excuse us," she said to Phil, and headed for her bedroom, not bothering to turn around and see if Erik was following.

As soon as he entered the room, she pushed the door closed and whirled on him. "What the hell are you doing, Girard?" she asked hotly. "Stakin' a claim on yer wimin folk? Chasin' that nasty varmint away with a dirty look and bruising handshake? Damn it, Erik! He's Min's uncle and has every right to visit and stay as long as he likes!"

"We were doing fine before he showed up, Christine. Where was he when Khan skipped out leaving you and your daughter virtually homeless?" His misplaced sense of outrage was at last finding an outlet and his narrow chest puffed up with indignation. "He shows up here overdressed in his Armani designer suits and four hundred dollar Gucci shoes, every hair neatly in place, and _I_ get shoved into a corner!"

" _Phil_ was overdressed?" she snapped, the hurt in his voice eluding her for the moment. "Please! Who was wearing tuxedo pants to paint the damned kitchen? And who, I might add, seems very familiar himself with designer clothes! And you were not shoved into a corner, Erik! You went there all by yourself. What did you expect us to do? Pretend he's not there? Ask him to leave because he's placed a foot in _your_ territory?" She shook her head in disgust. "I was actually waiting for the pissing contest to begin at any minute! You don't own us, Girard, and there's nothing between you and me but friendship," she snapped, "and I'm beginning to wonder about even that!"

The growing anger which he had managed to keep buried for five years, collapsed as her words got through to him. She was correct...Christine and Min didn't belong to him at all. He had merely been deluding himself into thinking they cared for him as much as he cared for them. They shared an apartment. That was all, and he had forgotten it. They weren't his family; Christine wasn't his to love and cherish. He wouldn't even know what to do in a committed relationship, having never been in one. Carla certainly didn't count, having hit the road the minute the commitment part came due. Christine obviously had a life without him, and would eventually rejoin it, leaving him behind and alone once more.

"You're absolutely right and I'm sorry for it," meeting her eyes with reluctance. "I seem to have over-stepped myself."

Christine's own ire fizzled out. They had worked well today and had fun doing it. Sort of like a family. That was a first for her. She took a deep breath, and put a hesitant hand on his arm, feeling it tense up. She gave it a squeeze. "Hey, I'm sorry too. It's been a long day, and you need to relax a little. Come and have supper with us. There's some beer in the fridge and it goes great with my chili."

He shook his head. "I have to be at the club soon and I still need to shower."

"Later then."

"I probably won't make it back until midnight or so. We're going over some of the numbers for tomorrow's show."

"Oh. Hey, we still good?" she asked hopefully, her smile warmer. "I don't know about you, but I had a nice time today."

"Never better," he promptly replied, and left her standing there.

"Yeah, right. You're just _swell_ ," she muttered snidely to his retreating back.

When she got out to the kitchen, she ladled chili into bowls and put corn bread on a plate, setting it all on the table.

"Maybe tomorrow you and Min will be _my_ dinner guests," Phil said, cringing as the first spoonful of chili lit a fire in his mouth.

"Sounds great," Christine replied, handing him a glass of beer before seating herself.

While they ate, the three of them caught up with each others' lives, until Erik reappeared dressed in his trademark black jeans and shirt, his jacket thrown casually over one shoulder.

"Night, Erik!" Min cried. "Sing good."

He acknowledged her with a smile, his eyes softening as they settled on the girl, before glancing at Christine, then de Chagny. "Good night," he said evenly.

She watched him go, wondering why Phil's arrival had put his friendly mood into a nose dive. Erik would never be the life of a party, but he did have a sense of humor. He also had a well developed possessive streak if he considered her and Min his by default.

And _women_ were considered the irrational sex?

Really?

Phil glanced between mother and daughter, wondering why their dispositions had changed with Girard's exit from the apartment.

Christine shook off the doldrums, blaming it on the start of her period, and nodded at the cashmere sweater in palest pink that Phil had brought her from London. "It's very pretty, but the box of English toffee is looking pretty darn good," as she helped herself to another piece. "Want one?"

He eyed her with amusement as she popped the candy into her mouth and closed her eyes. "I wouldn't dream of eating your toffees."

"I would," and Min helped herself to one.

Phil kept it light and pleasant until his niece left the table. "I won't even go into why your _roommate_ was dressed so formally to paint your kitchen, nor will I make any crass remarks about his uh... face wear." He leaned closer and Christine duly noted his hard eyes. "That being said, may I inquire as nicely as I can- _what_ in hell are you doing with this guy?"

"He has a birth deformity through no fault of his own, and in spite of it, he's a decent sort. You'll just have to trust me on this. He also happens to be a damned fine musician."

"That doesn't tell me _why_ he's living here with you and your daughter."

"I haven't seen you in two years, Phil de Chagny, and you feel justified in criticizing me? Whatever you're thinking, it's wrong. Erik has been good to us since he arrived here, and Min's crazy about him."

Phil smiled. "Same old Christine. Always has a soft spot for the oddball," and he held up a hand to stop her, "and that includes my anal retentive younger brother. So don't chew my head off."

He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. First and foremost, he wanted to know about Nadir Khan's exit and Erik Girard's entrance, and with Christine he had to be pleasant or she would clam up like a hostile witness. "What happened to the actor?"

"Took off for sunny Florida and forgot to mention that we weren't a couple anymore," Christine replied, not even trying to hide her bitterness. She sprang to her feet and busied herself making coffee, swearing when she managed to spill the grounds all over the counter as she measured them into the basket.

He set his glass of beer down carefully and wiped his mouth. "I do recall mentioning, dear, that you were in over your head with him! He smiled way too much, for one thing."

"Oh, stuff it, Phil! Stop with the holier than thou crap! You're a likely one to talk about relationships. Love 'em and leave 'em de Chagny!"

He stared at her in dismay, but had the grace to look embarrassed. "That's not true and you know it! I wanted Louise to come back to London with me. She refused."

"And that...was that," Christine said softly.

"How is she?"

"Pretending to have fun."

"She misses me?"

Christine smiled, and this time it reached her eyes. "She'll only deny it, but yeah. She misses you. Is that why you came back?"

"That, and to check up on you and Min. It was long overdue."

"We're fine. We have Erik."

"Why him?" he asked quietly. He's not your usual type."

"Why do I keep hearing that?"

"Someone else with my enormous sensitivity?"

She looked at him with amusement. "You could say that. I see it as like minds with enormous egos."

"Who?"

"Does the name Louise Sorelli ring any bells, Phil?" She just happens to share your opinion. Which just goes to show how much you were meant for each other."

"Tell that to her."

 _You_ tell her," Christine laughed.

"Hopefully, I'll get the chance. Is she seeing anyone?"

She recalled the gorgeous baritone in Sorelli's apartment the afternoon she went there for coffee and a sympathetic ear. "Nope. No one. She's practically a nun."

"Uh huh," Phil said dryly. He regarded Christine across the table until she became a little uneasy.

"I'm not a witness for the prosecution, counselor, so stop with the pointed stares."

"If I didn't know better, I would think you're hiding something, Christine. Too twitchy by half," he grinned. "What about you? Anyone on the horizon, or is he already here? I must say though, your track record points to a marked degree of male beauty, and since I'm forced to admit it, that actor had his fair share, and the de Chagny men are well known for their good looks.

"Your new fella is not."

"I'm sure glad you kept it to the male line, cause I've met your Aunt Gertrude! She's got more of a five o'clock shadow than you do! The de Chagny good looks didn't embrace her, poor dear, but that's beside the point. I like Erik. He's a good man...better than most, but it ends there."

He didn't miss the flush of color in her cheeks and wondered at it. "Tell me about him," he said quietly. "How did this all come about?"

For the next half hour, she proceeded to do just that, and at the end of it, he remonstrated with her. "You should have told me the actor ran out. I could have wired you money right away, Chris! You took an awful chance letting Girard in that night."

"Not likely," she said stubbornly, crossing her arms over her chest.

Phil put his head back and stared at the freshly painted ceiling. "Let's see. My brother, the zoologist, Khan the barely working actor, and now a masked rocker with a sad lack of clothing sense. Are you slowly but surely making your way through all the Arts and Sciences? You skipped a few in Sciences if you are."

"Scientists are boring."

"I ask you again- what the hell are you doing, Christine?"

"Moving on to more talented men, what else? But I'm holding out for an Academy Award winning actor who just happens to have a degree in biology, and is heavy into hip-hop. What do you think my chances are?"

He snorted. "Lousy, but joke all you like, Christine. I saw the way you looked at him. Strange things do happen."

"Yeah, so I've heard, so I've heard, but there's absolutely nothing between us, so you can stop your cross examination, lawyer Phil. I would know, wouldn't I? So tell me more about London," she said, deftly changing the subject. She listened to Phil, nodding in all the right places, while pondering Erik.

* * *

He saw the picture propped up against the sugar bowl as he entered the kitchen just after midnight.

It had been a long evening and the songs that night had required more energy to burn than usual. It had begun with Erik and Griffin doing the vocals for Dam That River, and ended with Rev Theory's Hell Yeah, and the band was happy to turn over the rest of the evening to the digital audio. They spent another hour going over some of the music slated for the next day, and by then, he was more than ready to call it a night. He had attempted to dodge Carla on the way out; he was getting good at it, but she was lying in wait for him to demand an accounting of his time. That, and an invitation to use her car for a trip to Hartford.

With Carla in it.

"Care to join me for a drink? It's early yet, and I'll bet you have no place to go," she said softly, leaning closer to him, "unless you have to baby sit that pallid faced blonde and her kid."

"What do you want from me?" He turned around and looked her up and down, his frank appraisal accompanied by a slow smile which was anything but warm. "Do I really have to spell it out for you?" He stepped closer. "Do I?" his whisper, the slide of silk against bare skin.

"Yes. She reached a hand up to his masked cheek, and his skeletal fingers curled around it, pulling it away.

"Listen closely then. There is nothing between us anymore. Not one. damn. thing."

"Your reaction that night in my apartment says something entirely different."

"Only that I'm human. Of course I reacted to what you were trying to sell. That doesn't mean I'm going to buy it."

"You sang a different tune five years ago."

"I was a different man five years ago. "

"You were a virgin at... what? Thirty-two? _I_ made you a man."

"You didn't take my virginity, Carla. You merely broadened my horizons, as it were.

"And then you walked away," he said in a low voice.

"And I'm trying to make it up to you now! I know I was wrong. I know it! Come on...we can go away this weekend. Let me in again, Erik. What do you say?"

He shook his head. "I have to go."

"What about your mother?"

"Night, Carla."

She had stuck her hands on her hips and stared at his retreating back. "This isn't over yet."

He kept moving, not even bothering to answer her. He was nearly to the door when Mark Abba collared him. "Got a minute, Erik?"

"If I say no?"

"Won't matter. I'm the boss. You're the grunt." Abba led him to his office just around the corner from the rear entrance. He waved him to a chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat."

"If this is about a contract, the answer is still no."

"Why?"

Mark sat on the corner of his desk and eyed Girard closely. He was middle-aged and balding, with a shrewd pair of brown eyes, and good business savvy. Right now, he was looking at a home on Easy Street- and getting there by way of Erik Girard. But first he had to wrap him up with a little enticement.

Erik shrugged. "Not interested in anything that long term."

"Wouldn't be the publicity, would it? Or say... anything to do with that incident involving your sister?"

Erik hid his surprise, keeping his voice even. After all, it wasn't exactly a secret. "You've obviously been doing some digging. May I point out to you that it's none of your business?"

"Well, you're wrong there, Erik. This place is my business. And you work for me. You're damned good. Too good actually to be hiding out in a venue like this. Don't get me wrong. I'm one lucky son of a bitch to have talent like yours. But your reluctance to go for better things made me curious. Five years ago you were on your way to the very top. Wouldn't you like that chance again? Different scene, but hey, music is music, right?"

"Not interested."

"What if I offer you a _two_ year contract? More money and sweeteners...maybe even something with an escape clause if you want out at some point. Will you at least _think_ about it? I want to be fair about this, Girard. I have no intention of revealing who you are or what happened, so think about it. You could end up in a really nice place, man."

Why was his world populated by those who couldn't take no for a simple answer? Erik finally was able to get out of there, wondering if de Chagny was still making himself at home in his castle with... what did Christine call it? His wimin folk. He grinned hugely, frightening an elderly couple waiting with him to cross the street. He averted his face and rolled stiff shoulders, thinking now of a small brandy and a hot shower.

He still wasn't sure why de Chagny had pushed his buttons the way that he had. Didn't want to delve too deeply into why he was so happy in that dilapidated apartment building- save for music, it wasn't often that he was content with his life.

Carla had mattered at one time. He had been head over heels with the thought that she wanted him. Wanted _him_ by God! He had been eager and shy by degrees, blown away by her beauty and lush body, following her around like a very awkward puppy just finding its legs. She was the older woman, and he had spoken the truth about not being a virgin, having already been in a couple of very brief sexual encounters. He realized practice makes perfect, and he hadn't had very much of that when Carla had steamrollered into his life. What she was offering, he took, never seeing the hard shine in those eyes, or the way her mouth had tightened with distaste at his first fumbling attempts with her. He hadn't noticed (or cared) that love and tenderness were conspicuously absent until it was too late.

And now she was assaulting him with more empty promises. He _was_ at times tempted. As he had told her...as unbelievable as it seemed- he was only human. But every time he decided to use her as she had once used him, the image of a slender woman with very blue eyes, hijacked his desire. Giudicelli ceased to exist.

But there was nothing between him and Christine either. She had made that abundantly clear after that very agreeable, very intense few minutes spent in each others' arms. It was a completely spontaneous moment, and one he had replayed in his head many times since.

The picture was drawn with crayons on white construction paper. One very tall featureless stick with bright yellow eyes, and black hair nearly to the shoulders, had a spectacularly long arm around a much smaller and slightly rounder figure wearing glasses. The smaller figure barely reached past the tall stick's knees, or where knees would have been had they been drawn. The short figure had light brown hair in a pony tail, and wore a pink shirt with red lips. Above the figures, printed in blue Crayola- _**Eric & Me**_.

They were holding hands.

He stared at it for what felt like ages, running the tip of one finger over the childish lines. It was beautiful.

"Hi."

He turned and looked at a rumpled Christine. "Hello," his voice slightly husky.

She gestured to the drawing. "She wanted to make you feel better. She's good at sensing discord...guess she knows the signs by now."

He stared at the drawing again. Such a simple thing. But for someone whose ego had once been trampled and degraded, it meant a great deal to him. "I will purchase a frame for it."

"Watch out then," Christine joked. "There's more where that came from."

"Did I wake you?"

"Nah. I was reading and got thirsty. Want some tea?"

"I'll have to buy some more tea bags. I'm drinking all of yours."

"Is that a yes?" she smiled.

"Yes," he smiled back, taking a seat at the table, the brandy forgotten.

Christine put the kettle on and took down some mugs. "How was the show?"

"Tiring." He rolled his shoulders, dropping his head down and twisting it from side to side. "Most of the tunes were fast and violent. I was all over that stage tonight and-"

He was startled by a pair of warm hands on his neck and shoulders. He nearly groaned at how good it felt as his stiff muscles were kneaded and massaged until he was nearly incoherent. Any longer and he would be slack jawed and drooling.

No drugs required.

"Where did you learn to do that?"

"My dad used to get muscle spasms in his back. A massage always seemed to help."

"So much talent in such small hands," he quipped, feeling pleasantly relaxed beneath her searching fingers. "Christine. About earlier today...I... was miserable, wasn't I?"

"Yup, but forget it. I have. Phil could have called ahead, but he rarely does...just breezes in and surprises the hell out of us."

Erik shrugged. "I certainly wasn't expecting him, but then again, he wasn't expecting me. Was he?"

"Nope." Her hands located every tight muscle...fingers trailing down his thin back, feeling the sharp knobs of his spine, the hard planes and angles of too little flesh. She didn't know exactly when Erik's breathing changed. Wasn't sure when her kneading fingers turned into a caress. One second she was standing there, and the very next, she was in his lap and he was kissing her.

She welcomed it. Possibly had lain there in her bed, her book's pages unturned, and listened for his key in the lock. Her hands now framed his masked face, her fingers working themselves into his hair, clutching it with both hands, her mouth opening to his. Christine sucked his thin lower lip between her teeth, her tongue delving into his mouth, searching, searching for his.

He pulled her to him, pushing her against his hard flesh, and hissed out a breath when she obligingly adjusted her seat in his lap, her legs straddling either side of him. His hands crept to her backside and pressed her even closer, knowing he would never get close enough. Their lips explored each other's mouths...one kiss became several, and then became several more. "What are we doing?" he muttered, hot then cold, the chills enveloping him as he rode this emotional roller coaster. Adoring the ride.

"Don't know," she whispered back, placing another fevered kiss to his mouth, "but I can't seem to stop-"

The shrill whistle of the tea kettle made them both jump, Christine nearly tumbling off of his lap. She rushed to the stove. "Saved by the bell...I mean...saved by the whistle," she said breathlessly, the hand pouring water into the mug, shaking a bit. She felt his hand wrapping around hers, steadying its movements.

"You could have burned yourself," he said in a low voice, as he turned her gently around.

"I think I already have," she replied.


	12. Give the Devil His Due

Nadir threw his keys on the table and glanced around the kitchen. No dinner and no Ava. For the second night in a row. He walked into the living room and stood undecided- hungry, yet having no particular interest in making himself something to eat. The place was so damned quiet; he could hear the humming of the fridge and the soft tick of the star burst wall clock over the sofa. The muted rush of cool air from the air-conditioning vied with the faint rumble of a lawnmower on the west side of their apartment complex. It barely intruded into his thoughts as he sank down on a chair.

And tried to force away a feeling of helplessness.

He ran a hand through thick, dark hair and tried to ignore a sudden longing for the life he had given up. The stability with Christine that had begun to stifle him, he now had a yen for. He wouldn't even mind the kid anymore; her and her endless questions. Really, he'd had it pretty good before giving in to the inevitable desire for a change in ladies, followed by chasing a bit part in a series clear to Florida. Must not forget that. His name would no doubt be banned in the de Chagny household- wherever it was.

He let out a sigh of frustration. Ava was attractive in her own right, but the restlessness that usually hit him not long after entering a relationship, was working on him now. For years he had flitted from woman to woman, like a bee darting from flower to flower, sipping from the cup of nectar and moving on.

No one could ever take _her_ place.

But Christine had managed to fill some of the hollow places in his soul that had been left when she died; had given him a measure of contentment, although love had never been mentioned, let alone felt. Khan could never find forever with any woman, but Christine had come closer more than any other before restiveness had set in, and leaving was the only thought in his head.

His part in the series was over with, having been _killed_ a number of times, each one more gruesome than the last. He chuckled outright. Min would have been fascinated by it all- becoming a zombie had elevated his status in her eyes. The girl would probably have enjoyed Florida and its heat; the amusement parks and spun sugar beaches. He felt a momentary twinge of shame that he had run out on Christine and therefore on her little girl.

He found himself wondering how they had fared since he left. Erik would have claimed the apartment, and Christine would no doubt have moved in with Louise Sorelli for a time, stubbornly refusing to inform her ex-brother-in-law of the change in her situation. She was fond of him, but insisted on going her own way as much as possible. Phil de Chagny had always taken an interest in Christine and the girl, more so than Min's father had ever done, but the lawyer had looked down his patrician nose at the likes of Nadir Khan.

The man had been very astute when it came to assessing Khan's character.

The twinge of shame had grown to a dull ache, his over-active imagination picturing mother and daughter wandering aimlessly from street to street virtually homeless, the girl panhandling on busy corners for spare change. He snorted in disbelief at the absurdity of this vision. As if Christine would allow her little girl to beg, and he was quite certain that Erik wouldn't have tossed them out with nowhere to go. Even so, he had still left them in questionable circumstances and his self-loathing grew.

He had a sudden urge to talk with Christine and at least offer her his apologies for being such a self-serving bastard. But perhaps a better way would be to contact Erik first. After all, he had not run out on Girard. Merely left him holding the bag, so to speak. Erik would perhaps know where Christine had gone. It had been months since his friend left that ferocious message on his phone, and Erik was never one to harbor a grudge for long.

With most people anyway.

He could think of one that Girard held in relentless enmity. Erik and his mother had butted heads since the very first time Nadir had been unlucky enough to be in the same room with mother and son. Her, and half the student body where they had attended school, had been held in utter contempt by his friend. That was shortly after Waseem Khan moved his small family from Glendale, Ca. to Hartford, where Nadir had begun middle school as the shifty-eyed foreigner.

He had been singled out as the newest, round-peg-in-a-square-hole kid, that schools everywhere seemed to have ready made, but a tall, painfully thin boy with a covered face, seemed to be the target of choice. Even as the other kids kept their distance, Khan could hear muttered insults as Erik passed clusters of fellow students sitting and standing in small groups in the courtyard. The Persian watched with mild interest one afternoon, as a sturdy blonde boy stuck a foot out and tripped the bag of bones. Nadir would have kept out of the ensuing battle, having no wish to make enemies, but for a twinge of empathy, when the hunky instigator was joined by two others. The ostracized boy put up a good fight, but three beefy specimens ganging up on one scrawny twig was not even odds.

It was a massacre.

The masked boy had struck first, his fury at the unprovoked attack, giving him the initial advantage as he planted a left hook in a convenient face, but the numbers were too slanted for him to keep it up for long. He soon went down in a tangle of flying arms and legs, and with a resigned sigh, Nadir set his books on the ground and waded into the brawl, pulling the blonde off the skinny dude by the back of his shirt. The fight was engaged with a more satisfying two against three, and at one point the inscrutable masked face, a little worse for wear, swung around and stared hard at Khan.

"Who are you?"

"Well, I'm not with _them_ , if that's what you're asking," he had panted, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at two of Erik's assailants, before a painful blow to his right kidney was followed by a foot connecting with his ass and giving him a hard shove forward.

A shrill scream had cut across the fighting and Nadir's head whipped up at the hysterical sound of it. "Allah," he whispered at the sight before him, the Twig's uncovered features now bared for all to see. The boy had scrabbled for his mask, snatching it from the cobblestones, and covering the pitiful wreck of his face in a matter of seconds, but not before more than a few had seen his ravaged features. That one brief look, only managed to make the remainder of his school years that much harder. Deeply ashamed, he hunched in on himself as the other combatants backed away from him in disgust.

The blonde haired boy looked from the crowd and back to the Twig with smug satisfaction, giving an exaggerated shudder. "Whew, man. You was hit over the head with that ugly stick more than once!"

A few of the students tittered nervously at this; some were even looking at the blonde with disapproval, but the majority were ambivalent to what had just gone down, the average thirteen year old not brave enough to stand apart from the herd.

A male teacher had finally arrived and begun restoring order as he grabbed at whatever flesh presented itself to him, hauling the combatants to their feet and separating them. Nadir had given a sigh of relief, and after a moment of hesitation, stepped forward, holding out a hand to the scrawny boy. After observing it as one would a live bomb, the Twig finally took it.

"Who started this?" Neff, the seventh grade math teacher had asked. He glared around the circle of blank faces, until a slender girl with straight brown hair and a mouthful of braces, looked fleetingly at the silent, now masked figure with a cut lip and torn shirt.

"H-He did, Mr. Neff," she told him, still rattled from what she had seen. "Erik Girard. He attacked Will for no reason at all, and _he,"_ pointing a purple tipped finger at Khan, "was beating Ethan on the head!"

Nadir glanced once at the boy named Girard expecting a denial, and was stunned when he said nothing at all. He simply stood there, wiping surreptitiously at his bleeding lip.

"Erik?" Neff demanded. "Did you attack Will first?"

A sullen shrug was all the answer Girard would give, and Neff then turned and looked at Nadir with surly impatience. Eying the other three boys, all members of the football team, Khan had decided he wanted to live a little longer, and therefore remained silent as well. Of the five involved, Erik and Nadir were the only ones to receive a detention.

"Get your asses to the nurse's office," Neff had snapped at the three troublemakers standing together nursing various minor injuries. He broke up the knots of remaining students then, until the courtyard was empty save for himself, Nadir, and Erik.

"Girard! Have that lip attended to first, then you and Khan here, get your sorry butts to the principal's office," the teacher barked, before leaving the two boys awkwardly standing there.

"Why didn't you say something?" Khan had finally asked Girard.

Erik turned a pair of oddly colored eyes on him. "Why didn't you?"

"I wanted to live without pissing blood." Nadir rubbed at his back. "That punch hurt like hell."

"There is your answer," and Erik held out a long fingered hand. "This isn't the first time I have been separated from the herd, but a first that anyone has ever taken my side," and after a tiny pause, "Thanks."

Nadir considered that pale hand for a fraction of a second. He had never seen a face like the one Erik Girard hid.

And hoped to never again.

But after a stilted introduction, they had gradually become friends as they navigated the mine field which passed for education. After ascertaining that they had both been singled out for their differences, the two misfits had banded together. The fights had followed them sporadically from middle school to high school, and even though Erik had never initiated one, he was more than willing to end it, often by devious means.

Sometimes they won.

Sometimes they didn't.

Through the years, they had remained friends, even when Erik skirted very real trouble the year they had turned sixteen. After school, their friendship had continued, despite their lives having taken different paths, but eventually, events had unfolded that would change them forever. In the end, they had drifted apart, only occasionally keeping in touch.

With a start, he remembered what his intentions were, and before he could change his mind, he punched in Erik's number and prepared to end the call if he got nothing but voicemail.

"Hello," and the dulcet tones of his friend were suddenly in sunny Miami, sounding familiar and alien at one and the same time. Erik was a child of the night, not glaring hot days with half-naked people seemingly everywhere, like breakers rolling endlessly along the sandy shore. He couldn't quite picture Girard in Speedos and a muscle tee, working on his tan as he lolled on the beach.

"My friend. How have you been?" Nadir said in a hearty hail-fellow-well-met tone.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the finest two-bit actor on the silver screen," the voice said in a much friendlier tone than Khan had expected. "And what can I do for you?"

"Can't an old friend touch base for no reason, Erik?"

"Only if that old friend doesn't have an ulterior motive."

"You never answered my question."

"Which was?"

"You son of a bitch! How the hell are you?"

"Doing well, Khan. Thanks for caring- finally. Better late than never," Erik said with amusement.

Which made Khan very curious.

"Yes. How did _that_ go? You sound very content, but I'll bet Christine wasn't thinking kind thoughts when you showed up that day."

"Something like that," the tone dry, like a sip of sand. "Did you want something?"

Nadir paused, wondering how to state this. "Christine, Erik. I feel bad about ending things the way that I did. I'd like to apologize for being such a..."

"Asshole," Erik added helpfully.

"Why, yes. Crudely put, but no doubt true. Do you know where she went?"

"I might," Girard replied mildly.

"All right, now we are getting somewhere," he said bracingly. "Where did she go?"

"Nowhere."

"Nowhere? Well then, where are _you_?"

"Here."

"Where is _here_ , Erik?"

"My apartment, Khan. Where else would I be?"

It began to dawn on him. And he knew he wasn't going to like it one bit. "You and Christine are _living_ together?"

"You have a problem with that?" Erik said, his lazy amiability suddenly gone missing.

"Does she know about you?"

"That's none of your business."

"That's a no, then."

"I would love nothing better than spending more time talking with you, Nadir, but I'm a little busy right now."

"Doing what?"

"Picking out floor samples for the kitchen, but thanks for calling. Keep in touch, old friend."

The Persian held a now silent phone, effectively put in his place. Christine was completely in the dark as to whom she was shacking up with this time. Just the thought of Girard with his former lover raised all kinds of red flags.

Where was Christine's sense of decency? The bed they had shared would hardly have been cold when Erik moved in. Worse yet, was the fact that she knew nothing of Girard's history.

Or perhaps even his face.

Maybe someone should enlighten her.

Someone like him.

* * *

"Um...tell me again why you are mad for turkey?" he asked, adding the plastic bag with Christine's frozen birdy treasure to his others.

She bit into her apple and thought about it. "Well, Raoul was a vegetarian, so we had tofu turkey for Thanksgiving _and_ Christmas. Nadir abstained from anything porky, and didn't care for animals with feathers, so roast beef was usually on the table for holidays." She shrugged. "This year was all about what Min and I wanted." She eyed him suspiciously. "You _do_ like turkey, right?" and at his nod, she grinned. "Yep. I pegged you for something fowl."

"That would be with a W, I trust?" he returned dryly, and looked askance at the bag containing the six pound turkey breast. "It is too bad that finding a turkey big enough to satisfy you was out of the question. Will we have to guard our plates from your roving fork?"

"Maybe. Who would have thought everyone decided at the last minute to stay home this year?" she complained.

"I told you we should have gone further afield."

Christine took another bite of apple. "Not necessary. It'll be plenty for the three of us and lots left over."

"You are sure of that?" he asked, knowing how plans had a tendency to go balls up at the last minute.

"Oh, sure. Phil is probably at this very minute sending Louise into cardiac arrest just by showing up at her door after two friggin' years. She'll probably be wearing something slinky and gorgeous, and faint dead away from excitement."

"Sounds dangerous," he replied, slowing his gait as Christine did a skip and a hop to keep up with his sidewalk eating strides.

"Could be, I guess. Especially if he doesn't catch her," she grinned. "But once Phil's done reviving her, he's going to ask Louise to join him for Thanksgiving dinner at the uber swanky Columbus Room."

"There you are then. You will only have to fight off _two_ people," Erik teased.

"You are fortunate though, I don't usually go for seconds of anything," he added.

"Gee, I hadn't noticed," raking her eyes up and down his lanky frame, not a bit of extra padding anywhere that she could see.

They were shopping for their holiday dinner, Erik having been given the evening off after an exhausting week. They had dropped Min off at Angie's for a while, and Christine didn't look too closely at why she was enjoying this shopping expedition; compared to their first, this one was a walk in the park.

They had separated the other night, each going to their respective rooms, having drunk their tea and managing to keep their hands from straying back to each other. She cut her eyes up at her companion, wondering yet again, what strange chemical reaction kept them coming back for more.

What kept _her_ coming back for more.

Erik was not a man to inspire lust in any woman. Well, that wasn't exactly true. His voice alone could do that. But it should have ended there for her.

It hadn't.

For two people who had sworn off any type of relationship except for the friendly variety, they were having a hard time following it through.

"Soo...tell me again about your conversation with Nadir. He's sorry for screwing us both over now, is he?"

"Yes. That would be Nadir Khan. It takes a while for any remorse to kick in."

"No kidding. It's a little late for apologies."

"Yes," he agreed, glancing down at her, admiring the sweep of dark lashes against her pale skin, the bow of pink lips slightly down-turned in disapproval. Lips that were soft and welcoming, warmly pressed to his. His face reddened beneath the mask.

Don't go there.

In a sudden onset of camaraderie, Christine tucked her hand through his arm. "How 'bout burgers from Randy's Cafe for supper tonight? I'll buy."

"That is an incentive if I ever heard one, de Chagny. The words, _I'll buy_ coming from your mouth, is seduction to the nth degree."

"Flatterer. I'm truly surprised no one has snapped up a prize like you, Girard."

"I have often wondered that myself," and held the door open for her as they entered Randy's, the air redolent of frying meat and fresh brewed coffee. An old fashioned jukebox squatted in one corner, a Kenny Chesney tune blaring from it. _'She thinks my tractor's sexy. It really turns her on...'_ The place was packed with diners, and they waded in to the counter to place their order.

"Who let the freak in?" A short hatchet faced man sitting at the counter looked Erik up and down before calling to the owner himself, who stood at the cash register ringing up a check. "Hey, Randy! When you start lettin' goths in here?"

Christine stared at the speaker sitting at the counter with another man, whose flat eyes were the color of dirt. Both stared unabashedly at her companion, while those around them sat and watched, their curious faces a pale blur as she focused on the man doing the talking.

She opened her mouth to give a withering reply, when Erik said firmly, "Ignore them."

She looked from him and back to the two men, having decided to give them a large, angry piece of her mind anyway, when Erik grabbed her arm. Amid unpleasant laughter, he propelled her ahead of him and out the door.

"That's right! Skip on down the street and scare the shit outta someone else! Ugly lookin'..." the other man yelled before the door cut him off.

Once outside, she ripped her arm from Erik's hold and turned fiercely on him. " _Again_ , Girard? What the hell is wrong with you besides doing your level best to avoid confrontations? Why are you so willing to let neanderthals like that, say and do whatever they damn well please?"

"Sticks and stones. Ever hear that? Except for a lack of functioning brain cells they didn't _do_ anything, Christine." His eyes had widened when he realized what she had dragged into the conversation. The purse snatching. "Ah. Yes, I see. We have arrived back at our first shopping expedition, have we? _Proving_ my worth to you by leaping into the fray and beating those two imbeciles into submission. That would do it for you, would it not?"

"It's called _man_ hood for a reason," she blustered, having the sinking feeling she was about to lose this particular argument.

"Last time I looked, there was no question that I fit that particular criteria."

"Oh? Not missing anything?"

She nearly gasped at the flash of hurt in his eyes, and instantly was ashamed. "Hey, look...I'm-"

"Forget it," he interjected, his mouth thin and sour. "You have made your point quite well. You require a pit bull, not an undernourished lapdog."

The walk home was the extreme opposite of the warmth and friendship with which they had first set out, and Christine cringed at the sullenness radiating off of him in waves. She snorted. What could he do to her anyway? He was incapable of fighting back.

Yet the knowledge didn't make her feel any better.

Only more miserable.

* * *

Their dinner of franks and beans was quiet except for the non-stop chatter from her daughter, which as usual was aimed almost entirely at Erik. Whether Min's hero worship was a balm to his wounded pride, or he was just too tired to stay in a bad mood, he seemed to loosen up more and more as the evening progressed.

While Christine cleaned up in the kitchen, Min further entertained him with one of her movies- this time Hocus Pocus. Erik was sprawled on the couch, feet on the floor, his head resting comfortably on a couple of throw pillows. Min sat below him, her back against the couch, making sure he knew what was going to happen next. It was a wonder he didn't stick a sock in her mouth.

"See, Erik. The three witches have come back. I told you they would, didn't I?. And the cat? It's really Zachary Binx, the boy at the beginning of the movie. Remember him? The mean witch cursed him! " Min sighed in admiration. "He's so cute, but wait 'til you see Billy Butcherson," and she giggled. "He keeps losin' his head!" She turned and looked up at the silent man stretched out on the couch.

"Erik?" Min turned to her mother who was nearby, sweeping the floor, and put a finger to her lips. "Shh. He's sleepin', Mom."

"Yeah, I can see that. You probably talked him there, so be quiet and let him rest." The little girl nodded, her hand creeping out and patting a lock of his hair.

Christine went over her food list for their Thanksgiving dinner, and was able to check off everything on it. She would make her pumpkin pies the next day; the bread for stuffing was in a bowl on the counter, and the turkey breast was thawing in the fridge.

Her head snapped up when she heard the faint giggle coming from the living room. It was Min's ornery snicker which alerted Christine. Something was amusing the child and she was trying to be discreet about it; that in itself was a dead giveaway. She threw her pen down and got to her feet. Not that Min was an evil little girl, but her sense of humor definitely came from her mother. Her father didn't own one.

When she saw what her daughter was doing, she clapped both hands over the snort of laughter fighting to get out. Min was busily braiding Erik's black hair in neat little pig tails that stuck out on both sides of his head. She had just finished one, and had industriously begun another.

He opened one eye and growled at the girl, "Did your mother put you up to this?"

Min giggled and kept braiding. "Uh uh. I thought of it all by myself," she stated proudly.

"Thank God you didn't paint my nails pink while you were at it."

"That was my job," Christine said with an easy grin. She stood above him, hands on hips. "You look kinda cute like that."

"Who knows? Except for Arons, it might work for the rest of the band," he returned mildly. He had tensed when the girl's hands had busied themselves with his hair. Long practice had taught him that curiosity was a powerful motivator, and often led to over-stepping boundaries, but eventually he had relaxed again, her little hands soothing.

Min sat back on her heels and surveyed him critically. "You're pretty with braids, Erik," she whispered, admiring her handiwork. She was wearing the club's latest promotion, a pink tee shirt with a pair of red lips above the city skyline, the words _LipSync_ below. He had presented Christine with one, and also Min's friend Angie.

Christine had to cover her mouth yet again at her daughter's choice of words. Of all the things she had noted about Girard, pretty wasn't one of them. "Now now, Min. We don't need that enormous male ego of his getting any larger, do we?" and fought the urge to laugh when Erik shot her a death glare.

"No chance of that with you around, Christine," he said peevishly.

"Go take your bath now, Min."

"You wanna talk to Erik, don't you?" the little girl replied sagely.

"Yes. Which means _you_ need to listen to me and go do it."

"Why?" Min asked, poking a button or two on her mother's patience reserves.

Christine put a hand against her daughter's back and gave her a gentle push. "Cause I'm the mommy, that's why," she said in a light, girly tone.

"Ohh," Min breathed, nodding her head. "That's a really good reason."

" _I_ thought so." She went to her knees beside the couch, resting her forearms on Erik's narrow chest as she leaned closer.

He looked away, and she placed an uncompromising finger beneath his chin, turning his head back toward her. "Hey. I'm sorry," she said softly.

He gave a curt nod. "Forget it," his dignity remaining unruffled despite the tiny braids poking out of his head.

She smiled in spite of herself. "Oh, Girard. You _are_ a treasure," lightly tugging on a braid. "I was upset on your behalf. They had no right to be so rude. They don't _know_ you."

"And you do, Christine? You thought I should react, and when I refused to be baited by a pair of lug-nuts, you turned your anger on me!"

"I know I did, and I was wrong," her thumb caressing the corner of his thin mouth. "Forgive me?" she entreated him, replacing her thumb with her lips in a feather light kiss. "Hey. We still tight?"

For an answer, he plunged his fingers into Christine's hair, pulling her head closer. His mouth nearly touching hers, he whispered, "And if we are not? What terrors will you enact on me?"

She brushed her mouth against his. "More of this."

"Count me in then."

Christine sighed in relief. "So what do you say? Are you my good buddy or not?"

"I believe I am," and to prove it, pressed his lips to hers.

She eagerly kissed him back, one hand resting lightly against his jaw. Getting up and stretching out beside him was looking better and better, until she recalled her daughter and reluctantly pulled away. She sat back, taking a deep breath. "Why do we always end up like this?" she asked lightly, licking her lips at the taste of him, her heart pounding right along with his.

"You started it, de Chagny," he was nice enough to point out. He grabbed her hand and held it within his own. "But keep going. _I_ don't mind at all."

"Seriously, Erik. How often have you been verbally attacked?"

"How many days are there in a year?"

"The bastards. They have you by the short and curlies, don't they?" She pressed her chin into his chest, ashamed to look at him.

"They do try."

"I don't help much," she mumbled into his shirt. "Some friend." Christine raised her head and looked into his eyes. "What about _physical_ attacks?"

"Verbal is preferable to physical any day," he stated, dodging her question for the moment. "A little more than a month ago, I was stopped by two of our city's finest while doing nothing more than standing on the street corner waiting for the light to change. My only crime?" One bony finger pointed to his face. He shrugged. "Some eyes are sharper than others. They decided a closer look was justified, demanding my ID and life history while they had me backed up against the wall of that florist shop on 2nd Avenue." He made as if to rub at his face, and dropped his hand.

Christine said nothing for the moment, not really knowing what _to_ say.

"Fortunately, they were familiar with LipSync and permitted me to go on my merry old way. That's why limiting my movements out among average peeps is how I have kept myself relatively intact. I am more comfortable when the sun isn't underscoring my obvious defects, but my father explained to me a long time ago, that to hide myself away would be the very worst thing I could do."

"He was right, you know," she replied softly, feeling entirely lame for even suggesting that she knew what he went through on a daily basis. She turned her hand over in his, palm to palm and threaded their fingers together. "I wouldn't have you as my...as my good friend right now if you hid yourself away in a...a cellar!"

"Oh, I don't disagree, although simply traveling from the apartment to the club can be problematic."

She was seeing his existence in a new light. Erik himself had made it easy for her to take his deformity in stride. He was amusing, kind, and for a man with such a huge disadvantage, surprisingly normal. Takes some kind of balls to pull that off, and not go completely wonky, she realized, and once again, she felt deeply ashamed for lashing out at him earlier that day.

"Hey! Answer the damned question, you! _How_ often has it become physical?"

"Often enough," he returned mildly, "but I learned from experience that the worse my reaction was, the more vicious went the attack. I developed an edge as I got older, and fighting back proved to be immensely satisfying... _although_ ," cocking his head in an attitude of uneasy recall, "it turned out to be a double-edged sword."

She heard the tang of old bitterness lacing every one of his words. "How's that?"

He said nothing for a moment as he played with her fingers, surprising her by raising her hand to his mouth and placing a tender kiss in the palm. He kept hold of her hand and stood up, hauling Christine to her feet with him.

"It's an excellent way to lose one's freedom."

She watched him walk away with narrowed eyes. _What are you hiding from me, Girard?_

* * *

Phil cleared his throat several times as he stood in the hallway outside of Louise's door. Clutched in one hand was a large bouquet of flowers; not sure of her favorite posy, he took one of everything, and had yellow roses jockeying for space alongside pink carnations and orange Gerber daisies.

An interior voice kept chipping away at his equilibrium; _You_ _really think surprising her is a good idea, Phil?_

"I'll just tell her I couldn't wait any longer," he mumbled to himself, straightening the tie which was intent on strangling him.

 _Shit, that doesn't sound right, de Chagny_. _You've been gone for two years_... _not exactly fast in the action department, are you?_

"I was waiting for Louise to come to her senses," he said stiffly, glaring at a woman passing by and giving him a wide berth.

 _Okay_ _, Phil,_ _b_ _ut what if she's got a man in there?_

"Don't be ridiculous," he said faintly to Inner Voice.

 _Me? Ridiculous? I'm not the one standing here holding a ga_ _udy_ _bunch of flowers looking like something from a Matisse_ _nightmare_ _and conversing with himself_ _!_

He straightened his tie and walked boldly up to the door.

"She'll be impressed by my thoughtfulness," and rang the buzzer.

 _All right_ , _whatever,_ _but_ _I'm telling y_ _ou_ _, you're making an awful mistake_. _Ooh, I can't watch this train wreck!_

"Shut the fuck up!" he muttered to the door as it opened.

"Phil?!"

"Louise?"

He stared at the woman standing in the doorway, the woman he hadn't seen for two endless years. His first thought was that she had changed quite a bit.

Starting with the hair.

It hung in greasy clumps to each side of her face, tinted an appalling... _green_? Her face was orange, her lips appearing to be an oasis in the middle of a tangerine landscape, and...his stunned gaze traveled below her neck, his blue eyes widening in alarm. She was wearing gray thermal bottoms, a shapeless brown sweatshirt which reached to her thighs, and the clincher- fuzzy pink slippers.

Louise gawked at the vision of Philippe de Chagny, handsome and debonair in a navy pinstripe suit, his hair a fashionable windblown tousle that was undeniably sexy. A Phil de Chagny who could not possibly be standing at her door, lobbing four letter words at her, and holding a technicolor bouquet of flowers.

He was a mirage.

Had to be.

She was about to test the point further, when she put a hand to her face, and it came away orange. Horrified, she remembered her girl's maintenance night- avocado deep conditioner on her hair, a Botanical Papaya mask on her face, and she groaned in abject misery...wearing her shittiest, most comfy stay at home clothing. She hadn't seen Phil in two bitchin' years- had _dreamed_ of meeting him somewhere and wowing him with her beauty and poise- making him regret leaving behind all of her adorableness and sex appeal. And what did she get?

Reality.

She saw red.

"Go to hell!" and slammed the door in his face.

* * *

He found himself knocking on yet another door, pounding it really, the flowers he was to have presented to Sorelli, hanging like an unwanted appendage from one hand. She had slammed the door in his face.

Literally.

He rubbed at his sore nose, angry and despondent. When the door opened slightly, his mood collapsed completely as he regarded Girard through the crack. "Well? _May_ I come in?" he asked with exaggerated courtesy.

Erik opened the door wider and stood aside, majestically sweeping an arm out while sketching a neat bow. "By all means, de Chagny. Do. I will inform madam," his voice deep and starchily correct in the board-up-the-ass intonation of an old family retainer.

Phil looked dubiously at the other man, deciding to ignore the sarcasm. He wasn't in the mood. "New look for you, Girard?" scrutinizing the tiny braids framing his masked face.

"You could say that."

"Well, lose it. It doesn't do a damned thing for you."

"I'll be sure to pass that along to my hairdresser."

Christine got up from the kitchen table, where floor samples were spread out. "Phil! I didn't expect to see you so soon." She eyed his glum face and the flowers in his hand with misgiving. "I thought you would still be with Louise."

"I never got in the door," he replied numbly.

"What? I'm surprised she wasn't waiting on the sidewalk in front of the building! She would have been over the moon hearing from you," and laughed. "Hey! Don't you dare tell her I said that." She looked closer at him, narrowing her eyes at his gloomy appearance. "What happened? Did she have company?"

" _What?_ "

Christine realized her gaff, and hurriedly threw a name out. "Company. You know... um, M-Meg."

"Oh." He cleared his throat, managing to look ashamed and sheepish at the same time. "No. No, I uh, wanted to surprise her so," he stuck a finger between his collar and neck, "so I didn't call ahead."

"Oh, de Chagny," Erik said in amusement, "Not smooth. No, not smooth at all."

"What is _wrong_ with you, Phil?" Christine cried, aghast. "You're not a newbie at this stuff! Why wouldn't you call and _warn_ her you were coming over?"

"I was eager to see her?" he weakly replied, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Hell, I don't know!"

"I do," Erik said helpfully. "You are screwed five ways from Sunday, and you will have to crawl now."

"Did I ask for your advice, Girard?"

"No, but you should have," Erik answered smugly.

"Who died and made you a dating guru?"

"No one _died,_ de Chagny. It's just common sense that any adult male over the age of twenty-one would have figured out by now."

Christine eyed him tiredly. "Erik? You're not helping here."

"Well then, allow me to remove myself from the room. I'll just go and cheer Araminta on while she decreases the zombie population." He nodded at de Chagny. "You have my sympathies," and ambled away, whistling Chopin's Funeral March.

"He's quite the comedian," Phil said irritably.

She couldn't stop a grin. "Oh yeah. He has his moments."

"You sure know how to pick them, Chris."

"I didn't pick him. I found him wet and abandoned on my doorstep. Min wanted to keep him, so I said sure, why not? It was an added bonus that he was housebroken."

"Very funny. Laugh at my misfortune," and held out the flowers to her. "Here. Nobody else wants them."

"Wow, Phil. So generous," she chuckled, accepting the dazzling array of flowers.

"Well, anyway, Happy Thanksgiving."

She looked dubiously at the bouquet. "Uh, thanks, I guess." She laid the flowers on the counter and pointed to a chair. "Sit." When he had done so, she got straight to the point. "She didn't know you were coming, so judging by your shell shocked appearance, Louise was having a maintenance night."

"A what?"

"Girl's night in. She was giving herself a facial and deep conditioning treatment," she explained patiently. "Was she sorta green and blue?"

"Green and orange," Phil corrected with a slight shudder.

"Okay, papaya."

"Christine, does it matter what color she was?"

"Nope. You're still in deep shit."

"I thought she would be curled up looking cute, while she read a book and drank tea." He was startled by the loud snort coming from Christine.

"You're not in England anymore, Phil. Sorelli might be drinking tea, but it would be laced with alcohol, and the only thing she reads are the rags which tell her who's boppin' who in La La Land."

He hung his head. "I really screwed up, didn't I?"

"Royally."

"Now who's in England?" he said miserably.

"Ha ha."

"How do I make it up to her?"

"You know that advice Erik gave you?"

"Crawl?"

"That would be the one."

"It might take a while."

"Oh, it will, Phil. It will."

"Christine?"

"Yeah?"

"Got room at the table for one more?"

* * *

 ** _Next chapter- Another mouth to feed. A phone call. A slight bump in the road._**


	13. Wild Goose Chase

"I'll peel more potatoes, you make extra gravy, and have everyone go heavy on the pumpkin pie."

"You're a brilliant man. Have I told you that lately?"

"No, you have not, but I realize how anxious you are to feed four people on your breast, and still keep some for left-overs."

"Uh, could you possibly word that a little differently?"

"Oh! I meant your _turkey_ breast, of course," he replied with a sheepish smile.

"I know that. I was only having some fun. You're right about the left-overs though, which reminds me of what I'm really thankful for this Thanksgiving."

"And what would that be?"

"A man who finally knows how my mind works."

"I wouldn't go that far, if I were you."

They were working in the kitchen...companionably, Christine thought. Erik had taken in stride, the fact that Phil would be joining them today for dinner, his only complaint being, that de Chagny should be helping prepare it instead of arriving at the last minute and simply eating it.

"Doesn't work that way, Girard. Phil is a guest, therefore is not required to cook his own dinner."

He flicked a finger at the bouquet of flowers in the middle of the table. "His taste in floral seems to be hit or miss; throw a little of everything at the wall and see what sticks."

She laughed at his superior attitude. "Oh? And I suppose _you_ could do better?"

"Certainly. I would buy one kind and one color. Bland, but not so desperate looking."

She rolled her eyes at him. "So wise for one so...

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-seven going on eighty."

Christine grinned. "You must have something in common with Mick Jagger then. I hear the knees are the first thing to give out."

He snorted. "I'm only thankful it isn't some other area of my anatomy not holding up."

"That's as far as I'm going with _this_ conversation," and reached for her phone which was now playing the love theme from Romeo and Juliet. "Hey, Sorelli. I've been trying to get you all morning."

"Just tell me one thing, Christine," her friend said waspishly. "Will _he_ be joining you for dinner?"

Christine cast a wry glance in Erik's direction. "If you are referring to Phil, then the answer is yes."

"I know this is short notice, but do you have room for one more? I don't see why _he_ gets to join you for dinner and I don't!"

"Well, of course you can! When did I say you couldn't! Just one little thing...there will be no blood spilled at my table. We _will_ have a pleasant Thanksgiving, won't we, Louise?"

"Of course. Wouldn't want it any other way. What can I bring?"

More turkey? "A pleasant attitude, Lou. See you soon." Christine turned to Erik and groaned, "I knew I should have gone with the ham!" She began to speed peel sweet potatoes, cutting them into quarters and dropping them into a pot of water.

"It will be fine, Christine," and pulled more white potatoes out of the bag. He would buy her the biggest turkey in the grocery store when this was over. He watched as she mangled another sweet potato, and gestured with his own knife.

"Slow down before you're adding more than just potato to that water," he warned.

"Ow! Dammit!" she swore, grabbing her finger, and jumping up and down.

He was beside her in a second, prying her hand open and inspecting the damage. He cradled it carefully and squinted at the cut. "It's not bad," as he turned on the kitchen faucet, and plunged her finger beneath the cold running water. "Shouldn't lose more than a pint of blood."

"Ha ha. Ow! Quit squeezing it!"

" _I'm_ not. You are. Let go of it," Erik said calmly, as he pried her fingers apart and yanked a paper towel off of the wooden rack. He wrapped it around her finger, applying pressure.

" _Now_ I am squeezing it," he needlessly informed her.

"Told you! It hurts!"

"Then stop jogging up and down," he ordered.

"You have a lousy bedside manner," she whined.

"I prefer to think of it as tough love, de Chagny, so buck up."

Min came out of Erik's room. "What happened?"

"Get me a band-aid, Araminta, would you? Your mother has cut her finger."

"I saw the way you were stabbing that sweet potato," Erik said, as he dried her finger and took the bandage from Min, placing it neatly around Christine's wounded digit. "There now," he murmured softly, and reluctantly let go of her hand. He leaned against the sink. "Did it ever occur to you that you have the right to say no to them?"

"That's easier said than done," Christine replied morosely. "Sorelli is my best friend, and Phil has been there many times for me. The situation isn't perfect, but when has anything in my life ever been?"

He tilted her chin up and his thumb grazed her lower lip. "Then you will just have to accept it as is. I will help referee your guests if either one of them contemplate violence toward the other."

Christine smiled weakly at his obvious pessimism that bloodshed could be avoided. "Yeah," she sniffed. "Enough blood has been spilled over this dinner."

* * *

It was one of the nicest Thanksgivings she had ever spent.

She counted it as a success even after the phone call which came as they were having dessert.

Phil was the first to arrive that afternoon, bearing two bottles of wine- Riesling and a Chardonnay. For Min, he had a new movie for her to watch. Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.

Christine smiled in all the right places and took Phil aside. "Louise is coming for dinner. I'm hoping this will give you both the opportunity to start over again.

"Without any scenes," she added.

"I didn't slam the door in _her_ face," he replied, his nose bearing witness to the event, "but I promise to be civil to her."

"Fair enough," she said, turning and giving Erik an eye roll. He had just come out of his bedroom, and she looked him up and down, his only concession to the occasion, a charcoal gray shirt and black tie. At least he was consistent in his color choices, but compared to his usual clothes, the gray was almost loud. "I'm proud of you, Girard," beaming at him.

"Oh? Why is that?"

"For introducing some color into your wardrobe." She took him by the arm and walked him to the kitchen. "Do the honors and open the Chardonnay and give Phil a glass, would you please? He needs a little liquid bravery before Louise shows up. I have to get dressed." She leaned a little closer to him. "By the way, you smell good enough to eat," and left him digesting that comment.

Christine dressed in a chestnut leather skirt with a wide black belt and cream colored sweater, her curly hair pulled back and out of the way of the gravy she would be making. She had no sooner accepted a glass of wine from Erik, when Louise arrived in a shower of expensive perfume and a lace red floral on black dress, cut to show off her willowy curves and long slender legs. She looked beautiful, and Christine felt a momentary twinge of jealousy when both men closely eyed the ballerina.

She elbowed Erik in the ribs and said out of the corner of her mouth, "You're drooling, Girard, and it's not from the turkey you're smelling," her tone slightly acerbic.

He glanced down at her in amusement, a pronounced glitter in his eyes. "I am not drooling. I might admire the Mona Lisa, but that doesn't mean I want to own it. I prefer someone less pleased with herself."

Christine huffed a laugh. "I guess I fall into that grouping then. I'm _never_ pleased with myself."

Another weighted look from him. "No? Well you should be. _You_ look good enough to eat," he drawled, and was rewarded by the faint spots of color in her cheeks.

After that remark, Christine was ready for anything. Even a cat and dog fight. As luck would have it, the two in question sat stiffly together on the couch, eying each other warily.

Phil made the first attempt at a rapprochement. "You look great, Louise. Never better."

"Oh? If you're comparing the view to last night, that doesn't mean very much."

"I'm...sorry about that. I should have called first. I realize that now." He turned and looked at her in earnest. "Could we start over?"

"Why are you here?"

"Same as you, Louise. Dinner."

"Don't be a smart ass, Phil," she responded mildly. "Why did you leave London?"

"To see you."

"Um," was all she said to him, but called to Christine, "Hey out there! Need any help?"

"Nope," her friend answered, looking up from the gravy she was stirring. "But the two of you could sure use some," she muttered beneath her breath, and of course, Erik's bat-like ears heard her with no problem.

"At the rate they are going, we won't have to worry about doing this again for Christmas," he whispered conspiratorially.

"And how," she whispered back. "We'll just tell them we're going out for Chinese," and to Louise and Phil, "Everything is just about ready, so you two can save some of that witty conversation for the dinner table."

While they ate, Christine observed Erik and his seamless move into host. He discussed politics with Phil, albeit stiffly, but at least he tried, music and the theatre with Louise, and movies he would watch with Min. For all that he had the disadvantage of having to cover his face, had to be careful to circumnavigate the presence of the mask while he put food and drink in his mouth, he was a good conversationalist, and kept the talk moving along at a spanking pace. At one point, he waggled his forefinger at her, and Christine wiggled a finger right back at him.

With a hastily smothered smile, Erik reached over and dabbed at the corner of her mouth with his napkin. "Cranberry sauce," he informed her softly.

Louise watched this tiny moment with approval, Phil with suspicion.

Christine couldn't help but compare Erik to the other two men who had once occupied her life. He was night and day from Raoul who would bolt his food and leave the table as soon as possible, and different from Nadir who wanted only to dominate a conversation instead of contributing to it. Erik caught her watching him from time to time and smiled in response, his look implying that they had pulled off a successful dinner.

And she smiled back.

* * *

They were having dessert when Erik's phone rang and he got up from the table, talking as he left the kitchen. Christine had no trouble hearing the strain in his voice as he spoke tersely to whoever had interrupted their dinner.

"Erik have to work tonight?" Louise asked.

"No. Abba gave him a few days off. Probably hoping to pave the way to a contract through some perks. He's still not sure if he wants one."

"Why wouldn't Girard want a contract? It gives him leverage and more money." Phil said, clearly thinking Erik was a chump, at least from a lawyer's point of view.

"It also puts a larger spotlight on him. He doesn't want that."

"I thought all musicians wanted that. Figures Girard would think outside the box."

"Are you judging him by your standards, Phil?" Christine said a little aggressively.

He put both hands up in appeasement. "Not guilty. Just asking."

"Better watch it, Phil. She's very protective of her roomie," Louise put in, winking at her friend.

"He's going to watch the movie with me later," Min told her uncle. "You can too, Uncle Phil."

"Girard doesn't seem the type to watch that kind of movie," he declared. "More into science fiction, I think. A Dr. Who kind of guy."

"You'd be surprised then," Christine responded. "He'll watch it cause Min asked him to."

"He sounds almost too good to be true," Phil muttered as Erik returned to the kitchen.

"Far from it, de Chagny," he replied in an even tone, before turning to Christine. "I'm afraid I have to leave."

"Now? You didn't finish your dessert," she protested.

"Claire...uh... my mother, is in the hospital and requests my presence at her bedside. In all good conscience, I cannot refuse."

"Hospital? Where? What happened? H-How are you getting there?" unable to halt the questions, even as her face settled into a look of disappointment.

"Hartford," he said in a grim voice and shrugged, "I don't know...some kind of accident, I was told. I'm taking the bus. Carla is on her way there and offered me a ride, but I have no wish to be cooped up in a car with her for two hours. I shouldn't be gone longer than overnight." He held her gaze a moment longer, his yellow eyes unfathomable, before he turned and left them.

"A close-knit family, aren't they?" Phil fed into the sudden silence, getting no answer.

Louise noted her friend's glum face and saw an opportunity to help her out and mend some fences with Phil at the same time.

"Take my car and go with him if you want. I'll stay here and watch Min 'til you get back."

"I don't...I-I can't. He didn't ask me," she said bluntly.

"That doesn't mean he wouldn't welcome it. I don't think he's very happy with the way things stand right now. Do you?"

"No."

"Do you want Carla there, holding his hand...possibly holding other things?"

"You're a sick, sick woman. You know that, Louise?"

"Of course I do, pumpkin," she soothed. "Just answer the question."

Christine sighed. "No."

"No, what?"

"No, I don't want Carla holding his, um... hand."

"Can I possibly add _my_ two cents?" Phil interjected into the hurried conversation.

"No!" both women said at once.

Phil turned to a curious Min. "Did you ever feel redundant, Minnie?"

"I dunno. Maybe. If I knew what it was," she replied honestly.

"It means unnecessary," he answered her, crossing his arms over his chest. "Which is what I'm feeling at the moment."

Louise hid a smile and gestured to the hallway. "Go on, Chris. Ask him."

A quickly muttered, to hell with it, and she found herself at Erik's bedroom door, knocking lightly. He opened it, leaving her standing on the threshold, and returned to stuffing clothes in his duffel bag. "I have dreaded this for years," he muttered in agitation, "but there is no help for it now. I might not have a lot of familial affection for her, but I am not an ogre."

"Do you know what's wrong with her?"

"She fell. That is all I was told. And Carla is using this as a way to insert herself back into my life, more so than she already has." He grabbed a worn leather jacket out of the small closet to the right of the door, tossing it on the bed.

"What does Carla have to do with this?" He ignored her, as he tugged on the duffel's drawstrings and straightened up.

" _Talk_ to me, Erik!"

"The floor will have to wait a few days, but you will have a new one by Christmas," he answered, neatly dodging the question.

She threw her hands in the air. "I don't care about the floor, dammit!" She looked at him with a mixture of affection and annoyance. "I care about you, you dummy."

"And calling me an idiot is the best way to prove this?" his mouth giving a slight twitch.

"I didn't call you an idiot! I called you a dummy. Ha! Almost smiled there, Girard! So are you going to answer the damned question?"

"You're a pit bull, Christine. You _do_ realize that, don't you?" He sighed wearily. "A few facts then. My mother wouldn't contact me outright, thinking I would flatly refuse her." He tilted his head in thought. "She would have been wrong in that. I believe I have a little more compassion than she has ever shown to me, and I don't want any guilt to weigh me down because I have shown none to her. I have enough of that particular emotion to last me a lifetime."

"Okay, I get that. She's your mother and you feel obligated to be concerned when she's ill. I wouldn't expect you to feel any differently." She watched him as he placed his beloved violin in its battered case. "Stop me if I'm not only stepping on your toes, but breaking a few. _What_ does Carla have to do with this?"

"Because for some bizarre reason, my mother has the notion that Giudicelli still retains influence over me. Carla is a favorite of hers and was asked to be there."

"For what reason?"

"To pick up where we left off, I imagine."

"And that was-"

He turned and eyed her warily. "Five years ago my mother assumed we would marry."

"And you? That what you wanted?"

Erik merely shrugged. "I wasn't exactly being bowled over by women, Christine."

She digested this slowly. "All right. That's a topic for another time. For now, let me go with you."

"No. I will spare you the tedium. You have your daughter and friends to think about."

"Do you _want_ to go alone? Cause if you do, I won't say another word."

He tugged on his hair. "Of course I don't! There is no love lost between my mother and me. Having you along would be-" He shrugged into his jacket. "I have to go."

Christine grasped his arm and looked up at him. "We're friends, aren't we? Well, Louise is giving me the loan of her car, and I can be ready in a few minutes. What do you say?"

"What about Araminta?" he whispered, feeling the first stirrings of hope. The last thing he wanted to do was leave his little family and the convivial warmth of a day which had once meant so very little to him.

"Louise is going to stay until we get back. I have a sneaking suspicion this isn't just her do-gooder mentality kicking in," Christine said with a thin smile. "She has an ulterior motive all mapped out, so I'm pretty sure she'll have someone keeping her company besides Min."

"You would do this for me? Why?"

"It's what friends do, Erik," she explained patiently.

"It is?" His grim mouth softened a bit. "Well then, as a friend... I accept. Go pack something warm for overnight while I say goodbye to Araminta."

Feeling triumphant and slightly dizzy from the sudden turn of events, Christine threw some clothes together, and reflected on her decision. For whatever reason, she had no intention of letting Giudicelli sink her claws any further into Erik. A man could only dodge an open invitation for sexual carte blanche for so long before succumbing. Hell, he didn't even have to like her. Aside from Christine's own confused feelings for Erik, she intuitively knew that something had nearly broken him, and she wasn't ruling out Giudicelli as the cause.

Yet.

And for that reason, she wasn't about to give her the chance again.

She sensed something fragile in her friend- a vulnerability that was mostly unseen, and for most of his calm acceptance of what life threw at him, she was sure he had moments of severe doubt. She had witnessed one of those times when he came home wasted.

Christine hugged her daughter goodbye and made her way out to the curb with Erik, who took her small suitcase and put it with his duffel in the backseat. She looked up one last time at their apartment window and waved to Min.

* * *

They had switched out drivers at a gas station off of I-95 N, and she glanced over at him as he merged with the busy traffic and back onto the interstate. He didn't look at all comfortable hunched over in the driver's seat of the Ford Fiesta, the glow from the dash creating pools of light and shadow across his masked face. Erik had shoved the seat all the way back to accommodate his long legs, but he still managed to look cramped.

"How is it you can drive wearing a mask? I thought anything which hid the face wasn't allowed in most states."

He shrugged. "When I got my driver's license they didn't realize I was wearing one."

"How was that even possible?"

"It simply was," he stated with cool finality.

"Sooo, I take it you no longer have that mask with you?"

"If I were to be pulled over now, they would charge me with impersonating a human, yes," his glance at her reminding Christine of a deserted house, its windows shuttered and lifeless.

"How about some music?" she responded quickly, and at his stiff nod, she began searching for a station, the chill in the car inching down by a few degrees.

She had bought two coffees at the McDonald's when they stopped for gas, and handed him one. Reminded of her gaff with the driver's license, Christine said hesitantly, "Tell me if I'm butting in again, but how long since you last spoke with your mother?"

They had been quiet for the most part since the trip began, her once loquacious friend silent and slightly forbidding. She could readily see a different side to Erik that was usually well hidden. Christine respected his privacy, but she wanted a little back story before walking into what could be a cocked up situation. After all, it was Erik's mother.

And his almost fiancee.

She shivered.

"Are you cold, Christine?"

"A little, I guess," unhappily noting his refusal to answer the question.

He turned the heater on, and she sighed at the blast of warm air as it enveloped her. "That feels good. I talked with a woman in Mickey D's, and she said snow is predicted for tomorrow night. Could be substantial."

Erik said nothing, and Christine slumped into her seat, wondering where her friend's thoughts were at the moment. Sneaking a peek at his tight mouth...nowhere pleasant.

"It's been two years."

The words dropped like acid into the quiet car. Christine waited, expecting more, but there wasn't any. Okay...so he had mommy issues. No matter how old a kid got, they still remained a child in the eyes of their parents. Particularly in a mother's eyes. Hers had been an affectionate mom...gone too soon, but she had been a steady and comforting presence up until she got sick. Erik, on the other hand, had a much different relationship with his mother if the gleaming knuckles clenched on the steering wheel were any indication.

She tiptoed through the minefield. "Did...um, did you part on bad terms?"

He chuckled, a deep and rich sound which began in his diaphragm...a contracting of muscle forcing air into the lungs, and in turn producing that slight noise, masquerading as mirth. It was one of the first things she had learned in voice lessons long ago. The importance of the diaphragm. If only it was that simple. Amusement in this case, was far off the mark. It was an empty laugh, devoid of humor.

Devoid of emotion.

When he wanted to, her friend could be downright scary.

"You could say that, Christine," he tilted his head toward her and smiled, "yes, definitely, you could say that. She felt no distress... no sorrow when I was put away for three years of my life. She was glad of it."

Her mouth opened and closed and opened, but nothing emerged. She glanced through the windshield into the deepening night which had suddenly become indigo, the bare branches of the trees, slashes of ink against the late November sky. She swallowed hard, running his words through her mind. Put away could mean just about anything. She glanced at his gaunt frame, forgetting for the moment that Erik for all of his rail thinness, had always seemed disgustingly healthy. But perhaps at one time he'd been ill and required a long hospitalization.

Really _long_ hospitalization.

Probably.

Possibly.

Maybe.

That must be it! She sighed in relief, because to think it was a...

"I was incarcerated at Smith's Grove in Connecticut. Are you familiar with it?"

Dear Jesus! He spent three years in an insane asylum. Unbeknownst to her, she edged closer to the passenger door.

Her slight movement did not go unnoticed. "You're not going to jump out of the car, are you?" he said with the first sign of honest amusement she had seen in a good while.

She snorted indelicately, bluffing her way through the next few minutes. "Well, of course not!" and tittered foolishly. "Just let me off at the next rest area and I'll walk home."

"Are you afraid of me now, Christine? After living with me for this long, you have decided I'm dangerous?"

His words slammed home. She and her daughter _had_ lived with him for months without anything more than an occasional bout of moodiness from him. Oh yeah, and there had been one or two incidences where he had left the toilet seat up. Min adored him. And Christine lo... _liked_ him a lot. She took a deep breath and tried to relax. "Dangerous? No. But it explains why you wear tuxedo pants to paint in, Girard."

"You have nothing to fear from me," he said in a low voice.

She heard the slight quiver in his tone and felt an accompanying ache in her chest. "I know. It just took me by surprise, that's all." She gestured to his cup of coffee. "Drink it while it's hot."

He nodded, and to please her, took a careful sip. "I promise at some point to tell you the whole story, but now is not the time. I am not feeling very encouraged by coming back here, and to dredge it all up now won't help my...uh, my state of mind.

"Which is perfectly stable, by the way," he added a touch anxiously. He cut his eyes briefly toward her, and smiled encouragingly. "I would never harm you or your daughter, Christine. You must believe that."

"I do," and it was true. "I butted in where I shouldn't have, so go on and take a swing at me. I deserve it."

She glanced at the speedometer and cringed. They were topping seventy-five, and she was sure Sorelli would be surprised that her little blue Fiesta could go that fast. "What did you put in the tank back there, Girard? Jet fuel?"

She surprised a laugh out of him, and the mood in the car slowly lightened. Erik eased up on the gas pedal, taking it back down to the posted speed limit. "Better?"

Christine nodded. "Much. I'll bet your car was a helluva lot bigger than this little guy."

"I never owned a car."

"No car? No wheels at all?"

"I had a bike."

"Two wheeler, four wheeler, or one with training wheels?" and was stupidly pleased when she wrung another chuckle out of him.

"Two wheels and a motor."

"Ah, that explains the leather jacket and your footwear. That your first pair? Couldn't give 'em up, could you?"

"They are well made, and at one time were actually waterproof," he said a bit ruefully.

"Used to be, huh?" she said, amused. "Relax. We all have favorites in our wardrobe. I sure do," reaching over and squeezing his thigh, her hand resting there as if it belonged.

He fought any kind of reaction, knowing it would be the wrong thing to do. He would lose the comfort of that warm hand, and that was the last thing he wanted to happen.

He needed all the comfort he could get.

"What kind?"

"Hm?"

"Motorcycle, Girard. Pay attention!"

"A 2009 Shadow Phantom."

"Cool. Get tired of it?"

"You could say that," he answered quietly, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

She was afraid to ask. Afraid of the answer. Her fingers squeezed his thigh again, and she began fiddling with the radio until she found a station with a Whitney Houston song, and began to sing along. " _Don't make me close one more door, I don't want to hurt anymore. Stay in my arms if you dare, or must I imagine you there? Don't walk away from me..."_

She gave Erik a self-conscious shrug. "I always sing in the car."

"Don't stop then. I'm enjoying it."

She glanced down at her hand, still ensconced on his thigh. She felt the long muscle tense and relax as he sped up and flicked on the turn signal, going smoothly into the left lane as they passed a much slower vehicle. Erik then moved back into the right lane, never even blinking when the GTO blew past them and swerved back into their lane, slowing down as it did so.

He set his jaw and changed lanes again, trying to wrest a little more speed out of the Fiesta.

She looked with interest at the sleek red car, loaded with faces staring palely back at her, and watched unconcerned as the young male behind the wheel lowered his window and stuck his head out, motioning to her.

Obligingly, she put her window down. "What?!"

"How much!?" he yelled, and flipped her the bird, as Erik yet again passed the sports car.

"He just asked me how much, and gave me the finger," Christine told him a little indignantly.

"You didn't return the compliment, did you?" he asked half amused.

"I don't go around throwin' it out to just anyone!"

"Oh. I suppose you have to _mean_ it for that particular digit to appear."

"I happen to have a very impressionable daughter, Girard! Not something I want her picking up anytime soon."

He squinted into the rear view as the little red car crowded their bumper before passing them. As the car came up alongside theirs, the passenger threw the finger out his open window. "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on!" he shouted amid rowdy laughter, as the car roared around them, cutting them off as it slowed down to a crawl.

Erik floored the gas pedal and attempted to put the clowns behind them once and for all. Christine wound her window down, more than ready to yell back as they passed the red car, but before she could utter one word, the driver hung his head out of the window and shouted at her, "Yo! You got customers, Trix!"

Her mouth hanging open in what felt like the polar jet stream, the red car was once more behind them.

But not for long.

Using the GTO's considerable horses, it zoomed past them and abruptly slowed down.

Erik hit the brakes and swerved the Fiesta, just missing their back bumper. He glanced quickly at Christine as she threw an arm out to brace herself. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, but what the hell is their problem?" staring at the rear end of the sports car, now going the bare minimum.

"They are baiting us. They have nowhere to be, nothing to do, and very little brain power. This is their idea of fun."

"So every time we pass them, they pass us. Rinse. Repeat."

"Yes."

"What do we do?"

He shrugged. "Attempt to outlast them. Or get off at the next exit and lose them."

"The next one is in two miles."

Erik swerved into the left lane once again and passed the red car. This time though, he remained out there, trying to put distance between them. The red sports car merely nosed in behind the Ford, riding their tail, and occasionally giving the Ford's rear bumper a tiny nudge. The little Fiesta couldn't match the GTO for power.

"They just bumped us," she said in disbelief.

"Yes."

"I don't like this at all." Christine whispered.

"It isn't an ideal situation," he agreed, looking over at her. "It will be fine, Christine. Here is the exit. We will get off and have a short break. We may even find you a turkey sandwich, and by the time we reenter 95, they will be long gone. All right?"

"You're the driver, Mr. Girard," she replied lightly, her nervousness easing a little.

He took the exit and went to the nearest gas station, which also happened to have a Subway shop.

Christine gave a tiny squeal of joy, the sports car forgotten. "I'm going to get a turkey club with avocado. What can I get you?"

His eyes narrowed as he looked into the rear view and saw the red GTO behind them. He watched as it pulled into a parking slot just around the corner from them, and said blandly, "Nothing for me. I'll wait here. I need to stretch my legs a bit."

Christine looked at him fondly. "Be right back."

Erik watched her as she went inside and stood in line. She would be gone a while. He got out of the car.

* * *

"I don't want to do this no more. Did you see that fucker's eyes?" Sean said from the back seat.

Ryan gave him a look of pure disgust. "You're nothin' but a pussy, know that, Landon?"

"Better a live pussy than a dead dick," he muttered.

"What _are_ we doing here?" Nathan asked from the shotgun seat. "It's a bust, so let's pack it in, whaddaya say?"

The fourth boy piped up in a treble that got all of their attention, his brown eyes widening in alarm. "Don't look now, but I think we're _all_ dead dicks!"

Erik approached the driver's side and leaned down, rapping imperiously on the window. Ryan entertained the notion of just getting the hell out of there, but one quick glance at that impassive face, and instead lowered it.

"What's up, man?" he blustered.

"Evening, gents," Girard said pleasantly.

Sean was right, Ryan decided.

The dude had weird eyes.

His gaze dropped from the man's stiff face, as those eyes regarded him closely before moving on, and flaying each and every one of them in turn. They came back around and settled on him once again. Ryan tried a bluff. Something he wasn't very good at in poker, but it might work here. "Do we know you, man?" his voice only slightly high pitched. Good.

"Is playing chicken with daddy's car all you have to do tonight?" Erik asked mildly, his gaze flicking over them again in a slow dissection.

Jayden slid down in his seat, looking away from him, and stared wide-eyed at Sean instead. Oh shit, shit, buggery shit, he mouthed silently to him.

Landon broke first. "We didn't mean nothin' by it! Honest. Did...did...did we, J-Jay?"

"No, sir...no, sir! We just figured on havin' some fun," his laugh slightly hysterical.

"Did you now?" Erik pursed thin lips, bony fingers tap tap tapping against the driver's door.

To Nathan, it sounded oddly like the Death March heard in the old Bugs Bunny cartoons. He wished it would stop.

"My lady friend is a little upset with this situation we now find ourselves in," Erik's sigh melancholy, and the boys felt a collective shiver run up their spines. "And when _she_ is upset, so am I. _But,_ to make a long story shorter for your tiny intellects to compre _hend..._ I was only recently discharged from the mental institution," repressing a smile at their gobsmacked little faces, "ah...that would be loony bin to you gentlemen. Therefore, I need to keep my nerves calm, and _you_ are not helping me in this. What's more, my Antivan prescription ran out."

"Antivan?" Landan squeaked.

"Sedative. Keeps me from snapping. I have no wish for a repeat of what put me there in the first place."

"W-What was that?" Jayden quavered, hurriedly clearing his throat.

"I got into a bar fight and bit off someone's nose. You see, I was slightly perturbed."

"What'd he do to you?" Ryan piped up in horror.

" _She_ bumped my bar stool. Made me spill my drink."

"S-She?" Ryan swallowed hard and gave Erik a sickly smile. "You'll have no more trouble from us, man. That's a promise."

He stopped his incessant drumming on the door. "I am happy we have reached a satisfying conclusion then."

Erik turned to go, wanting to be in the car before Christine returned, when Ryan called out to him. He turned back.

"Hey! S-Sir. You might wanna take that sign off the back of your car. It's the reason we followed you in the first place," and started the GTO, backing slowly out of the slot.

Ryan gave a toot of his horn as he passed him.

He went to the back of their car, and stared silently at the large black letters printed on stiff white cardboard, duct taped to the bumper.

Christine stepped up to the cash register, and spied Erik standing behind their car studying the back of it. She paid for her sandwich and made her way out to him.

"What's so interesting?"

He gestured with one finger, his mouth breaking into a lopsided grin. "Have a look."

She stood beside him and regarded the placard, reading it with an answering grin of her own. "Remind me next time to check the car for graffiti _before_ we leave the curb."

 **FOR A REEL GOOD TIME** **CALL** **TRIXIE** **555-6036**. **I** **PURFORM IT ALL.** **NO ONE TERNED AWAY**. **BEST HED ARON** **D** **.**

"I wonder if he ever got beyond grade school?" She held up her bag and gave it a little shake.

"Turkey?"

* * *

 ** _Next chapter_** \- _**You rang?**_ _ **Meet my mom. Hey, you're steppin' all over my aria!**_


	14. Set My Teeth On Edge

"Will you look at this mess?"

Louise glared at the remains of their dinner, gravy congealing on the plates and the bare bones of the turkey breast exposed and well picked over. "Just like a bunch of buzzards sat down to eat," she snorted.

"Speak for yourself, Sorelli. I have a little more decorum than a buzzard. Besides, what did you expect when you practically tossed your car keys at those two? Do the words, _shit_ and _git_ mean anything to you?"

"Crude as ever, I see," she replied scathingly.

"You would know, Louise. You taught me well," Phil answered dryly.

She started clearing the table. "What do you have against Erik Girard anyway? Whether you like him or not, Christine does and so do I."

"Me too," Min piped up from the living room. "He makes my mom laugh."

"Does he now?" Phil took off his jacket and hung it on one of the hooks in the front hallway. He rolled up the sleeves of his blue dress shirt, and began to fill the sink with hot water. "You have to admit though, that running around with your face covered all the time would raise a few eyebrows."

Louise had to concede that he was right. "It's unusual, granted, but it is what it is, and most of us accept him this way. You should too, and if Christine enjoys his company, so what? Isn't there an old saying about laughter being the best medicine?"

Phil snorted. "I didn't know Christine was sick."

"She isn't," Louise said with patience, "but she appreciates a man with a sense of..." She was arrested by the sight of his neat backside and wide sturdy shoulders as he loaded the sink with dirty dishes. She had missed that view.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Well? A sense of what?"

"A sense of... um...humor. You know, I don't think I've ever seen you wash a dish before, Phil."

"That's because I never wanted to impress you before, Louise."

"You do?"

"Why else would I be up to my elbows in soap suds?"

"Is that an apology?"

"It could be."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Louise asked him, feeling hopeful.

"It means... I think we should spend the evening allowing me to grovel at your feet for nearly breaking my nose on your door."

He surprised a laugh out of her. "I think that can be arranged. I've missed your groveling."

"I've missed _you_ ," he said quietly. "Very much."

She stood perfectly still as he methodically wiped his hands on a tea towel before tossing it on the counter. "Me too," as he left the sink and pulled her gently into his arms, his mouth seeking and finding hers.

Min turned from the TV and observed the pair kissing. "Guess this would be a bad time to ask if they want to watch the movie with me," she sniggered to Scooby Doo.

As if in answer, the gerbil hopped onto his wheel and started running.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," she said.

* * *

They made it into Hartford by nine o'clock, and Erik pulled off of the road to call the hospital for a status update on his mother. When he ended the call, he sat back in the driver's seat and looked at her, his mouth thinned in displeasure.

"She was discharged an hour ago. They did some tests on her ankle and found it to be a _slight_ sprain."

"A sprain? I was under the impression it was worse than that."

"So was I. Carla certainly painted a grim picture. Instigated no doubt by my mother."

"She wanted to see you so-"

"Yes," he said. "Her accident went from minor to major."

"The only way to get you to come home was to _guilt_ you into it? I feel kind of bad for her."

"I'll forgive you for that, Christine, since you don't know her like I do," Erik replied shortly. He pulled out into traffic, leaving the bright lights of Hartford behind them.

"Where are we going? I figured you for a townie, not a country boy."

"We are going to where I grew up."

"Right. Your home. I already knew that."

"No," he said patiently. "The place I grew up. It was never really a home- not for me anyway." He debated with himself before reluctantly adding, "Being with you and Araminta has been more of a home than I ever had with her."

He made a right turn off the main road onto a pot hole strewn drive set between stone pillars, and followed it around as it climbed and curved through the woods, ancient trees on both sides of the car arching overhead, their branches nearly meeting. Only a few weeks before, it would have been a leafy tunnel, dark even on the brightest day.

She turned and watched her friend in the dim interior of the car, his mouth pinched to almost nothing. "Loosen up, Girard. From what I can see, you look like you just bit into something shitty."

"You have a true gift for expressing yourself, Christine," Erik said, caught between amusement and annoyance.

"You bring out the best in me, that's why."

They hit a particularly deep pot hole. "She hasn't invested much of my money in the upkeep of this place," he muttered. "I can just imagine what the house and grounds look like."

Christine wasn't about to touch that utterance with a ten foot pole. Obviously Mama Girard had once thought of her son as a cash cow. Cash...bull?

He got his answer as the drive opened up into a wider area filled with several more deep ruts, ending in front of a high stone wall. A set of rusted gates stood open, one leaning at a drunken angle. Not hesitating, Erik drove between the pillars topped with iron eagles, their wings outstretched as if ready to take flight. The house which met her eyes reminded her of nothing more than the house from the Adam's Family movie. Recalling her one-time conversation with Sorelli, Christine quickly stifled a nervous giggle.

In the meager light, the house appeared a leprous gray, the headlights revealing a square tower in front of them where the front door was located. The house extended out from this tower on both sides, and craning her neck upward, appeared to be at least three stories. Thick creeper vine snaked over a good portion of what she could see from the light spilling out of a room on the second floor, and several windows alight on the ground level.

"I think I understand you a little better now," she said in a hushed voice as she gazed upward at the Gothic Revival. She wondered if Lurch would be answering the door in his deep sepulchral voice.

 _You rang_.

She squelched another giggle.

"What's so funny? I would like a good laugh myself right about now," Erik told her as he followed the driveway around the side to the garage, long ago converted from the original carriage house. He eschewed the garage, instead parking beneath the spreading limbs of a large horse chestnut.

"N-Nothing," she mumbled, as he came around the front of the car and opened her door, offering his hand. She waited patiently as he pulled out his duffel and her suitcase. She turned and looked up at the looming house. "Is this place haunted?"

"Only by the living," he intoned mournfully.

"Nice try, but you're not scaring me, so keep going! See if I care," she sniffed.

"Whatever walks here, walks _alone_ ," his voice a cellar deep basso profundo as he recited the lines, more or less, from The Haunting of Hill House.

"Okay... now you're scaring me, Girard."

"You should be, Christine."

"I think I'd like to go home now," she said, only half joking.

"Tomorrow," he soothed.

"I guess this means I get my own room," she teased.

He snorted. "You could have your own floor if you wanted it."

She shook her head as they trudged up the cracked sidewalk to the massive front door. Erik tried the knob, finding it locked, and raised the iron door knocker, giving it a couple of sharp raps. "Carla is no doubt here and she should be-"

The door was yanked open, and Erik was enveloped in a cloud of perfumed arms, pulling him into a tight embrace.

Not exactly Lurch, Christine thought glumly.

"Erik! I've been waiting forever to-" Carla stared with suddenly narrowed eyes at Christine. "Who the hell invited _you_?" she sneered.

Christine put on her best shit eating grin. "I represent Ghostbusters, madam and have arrived to rid this place of an evil presence," giving Carla a quick once over. "Well, what do you know? I think I've found it!"

"Is that supposed to be funny?" Giudicelli rapped out.

"Yes?" Christine answered meekly.

With an amused look at her, Erik set his burden down and untangled Carla's arms from around his neck. " _I_ invited her. Have a problem with that?" He snatched their luggage up again and looked pointedly at the other woman.

Carla stood back, her eyes glittering as they fell on Christine in obvious displeasure. "None whatsoever."

She led them inside, and Christine's mouth popped open in shock. She had only been in houses like this on paid tours. The large foyer had doors on both sides, as well as long dim hallways at the back of the house, disappearing into the gloom. A wide sweep of carpeted steps opposite the front entry, went part way up to a spacious landing, where it split into two directions, left and right of the stairs. The walls were black walnut paneling, heavy and cheerless, the only color in the somber space, coming from marble floors patterned in a chessboard design. An immense stained glass window on the landing, depicted angels and demons duking it out on earth for the warped souls of humankind. It was vivid and gory, lovingly portrayed by the artist. She stared at the intense colors of battle between good and evil, the agonized faces and twisted limbs of the damned being rendered apart, and Christine felt sorry for a baby Erik having to pass by it several times a day.

"You could have prepared me for this," she whispered behind Carla's back. "I could fit our entire apartment in here and still have room to spare."

"A serious waste of space," he agreed.

"How can you stand living in the slums with Min and me?" to which he rolled his eyes at her. "There must be a fortune alone in paintings," gesturing to the many portraits of soberly dressed people lining the walls. Dull landscapes of stormy gray skies over rolling green hills and fields dotted with fat brown and white cows, interspersed the portraits. She shivered, imagining the dark eyes of the smug, self-righteous individuals following her across the floor.

 _Murder by Death anyone?_

"Relatives of yours?" and she snorted when Erik turned and glanced sharply at her. "I uh, meant the people," she said hastily, trying to wrest a smile out of him, "not the Guernseys." Her friend was looking far too grim.

"Yes," and he pointed to the portrait of a thin man with straggly black hair and equally black eyes. The painting's face was stern and forbidding- not a jolly man by any means. "That's my great great grandfather Edward Mercer." He nodded to an equally thin woman wearing a look of constipation. "That is his wife, Amelia. Sweet, aren't they?"

"Your grandmother looks like she's dying to kick someone's ass, and Eddie," cocking her head and studying the pair, "well, he looks like he wants to kick hers."

Her amusement at the expense of his decidedly creepy ancestors, cut deep. After all, _he_ was creepy too. "Cut the crap, de Chagny," he responded tiredly.

She leaned closer to him. "Ooh, baby! This is a red letter day. Girard said the word _crap_. I didn't know it was even in your vocabulary."

"I'm in a bad mood, that's why," he said sullenly.

"I'd hate to see what pops outta your mouth when you get actively angry, pal," she teased, and peeked through a set of doors which stood open, revealing a large ornate dining room. "You might say something really bad. Like, _holy_ crap."

"I don't need to use excessively vulgar language to get my point across, _Christine_."

"So what you're saying, _Erik..._ crap isn't a vulgar word?"

"Not in the same league as some of the zingers that leave your mouth on a regular basis."

Carla was staring blankly at the two of them, wondering what idiocy they were spouting now. Their friendly bickering made her feel like a piece of furniture. "I only have the bed in your old room made up," she said, dropping back to Erik's side. "I had no idea you'd have someone tagging along, and really...so many of the rooms are closed off," giving Christine a feral smile as they crossed the hall to a set of french doors, and into the parlor.

"No problem. Just give me some sheets and I'll make up a bed for myself," Christine returned, coolly polite. _Bitch._

"You can have mine," Erik said as they sat down on a carved love seat, faded and well worn. "Doesn't matter to me where I sleep." He turned to Carla and said reluctantly, "Well, how is she? You led me to believe she was at death's door, not hopping around on one foot."

"How was _I_ supposed to know what was wrong with her?" Carla exclaimed snidely. "Claire called me from the hospital sounding ill, said she had fallen, and that they were running tests. What did you want me to do? Hang up on her?"

"It didn't occur to you that she might be exaggerating just a little?"

"Well, yeah, it did cross my mind, but so what? She fell, asked me to contact you, which I did, and for _me_ to bring you here," eying Christine with a curled lip, "which is what I tried to do."

Christine's nose twitched at the fine dust they had disturbed when they sat down. It now hovered in the air, and she wondered morosely what the bed would be like.

"Is she awake?" Erik asked impassively.

Carla shrugged. "She said she wanted to see you as soon as you arrived, but she took a mild sedative and might have dozed off. Not a bad idea, if you ask me. I might just help myself to one or two before I go to bed."

"Try some hot chocolate instead," he returned dryly.

"Or a little wine? Your mother always kept a nice cellar. Perhaps you and I can share a glass later," an invitation for Christine to join them not offered. "Where are you planning to sleep? There's oodles of room in that big double bed of mine. Just like old times," she said archly, looking at Christine.

Erik studied her with suddenly shrewd eyes. _Trying for a little wedge_ _inserted between me and your so-called replacement, Carla?_ "No," he replied unequivocally. "I already have a room."

"Oh? I thought you were giving it up for her," jabbing an accusatory finger at Christine, but she was dismayed to see a vulpine smile on Erik's mouth.

"Not giving it up," and he looked at Christine, willing her to go along, " _sharing_ it."

"Just make sure you don't hog the blankets this time," Christine told him, having a little fun of her own.

"I wasn't hogging the blankets. I was attempting to get you to stop snoring."

"Suit yourself," Carla sniffed, and tired of their banter, headed for the door. "Come on. Your mother awaits." She narrowed her eyes at the other woman. "Alone."

"I think I can find my own way, Carla, thanks," he said coolly. "You go on to bed."

"All right. I will, but not to sleep," she smiled, wetting her lips. "If you want to... _talk_ , come on in."

"Good night, Carla."

"It could be, Erik."

Christine stared after her in disbelief. "Whew! Talk about open invitations! I thought she was going to wrestle you to the floor and rip your clothes off right in front of me! What in the hell did you ever see in that skag?" She clicked her tongue in mock disappointment. "And I thought you were a boy genius."

He tugged on his hair as he often did when he was put on the spot. "I'm sure by now you have noticed that Carla is easy on the eyes. I however...am not. Would naive and desperate excuse me?" he asked hopefully.

"Yep. Been there myself. Gullible and needy will cut you off at the knees every single time."

"You would know. I only fell for it once. You should have known better when Khan came along."

"Okay, okay! So I was young, inexperienced, _and_ stupid."

Erik shook his head. "I never said you were stupid, Christine. You let me in, didn't you?"

"I sure did. You looked so wet and miserable," her eyes oddly tender. "I just had to take pity on you."

"Pity? Ha! I remember a hostile, pistol packin' mama that night- or was led to believe. You had no choice, as I recall."

"No. I didn't. Did you?"

What do you mean?"

"Did you love her?" she asked quietly.

He shrugged. "If that's what you want to call it. Myself, I never put a label on it." He stared down at the ancient Aubusson carpet beneath his feet. "Neither did Carla, for that matter. You have to understand what it was like to suddenly find a pretty woman taking an interest in me. We ran into each other at the Bushnell Performing Arts Center in Hartford where I was per... uh... where _she_ was singing in the chorus. We were already acquainted through our mothers, but I hadn't seen her in quite a few years. She had gone from a gawky teenager to..." he shook his head. "Well...what you see now, and I admit that I probably made a complete ass out of myself."

"Who ended it?"

"I suppose I did."

"How?"

"By becoming an inmate of Smith's Grove for three years."

"She just _left_ you?"

He got abruptly to his feet. "Look, I appreciate your going along with the sleeping arrangements, de Chagny, but I wasn't serious."

"Are you kidding? The look on her face when you told her was priceless!" she said laughing. "Might as well see it through. Carla could go looking for you tonight, and if she finds you someplace other than with me, you'll be back to holding her off with a sharp stick."

"A sharp _stick_?" raising one invisible eyebrow.

Christine snorted. "Forget I said that!" and waggled a finger at his midsection. "I wasn't making any comparisons between _that_ and a stick, mind you, but honestly... how long can any one man ignore what she's dishing out?"

"You have a point," he admitted, and treated her to his fifty mega-watt snaggle toothed grin, and he was surprised that a smile could still come so readily to him. Erik held out his hand. "Come. I'll show you where to sleep."

"What?"

He cocked his head at her. "Sleep. As in slumber."

"Yeah, I _know_ what sleep is," she said, exasperated. "I thought maybe you'd like some company when you go see your mother after two years.

"Unless you need the privacy," she added.

"Hardly. But why would you want to?" unable to comprehend anyone voluntarily seeking out his mother.

She put hands on hips. "Well, why did I come along for the ride?"

"Because you are a brilliant conversationalist?"

"No. Guess again."

"You are good company?"

"Nope."

"That only leaves the sorry relationship I have with my mother."

"That's right. Freud would be proud of you!" she said in approval. " _Now_ who's brilliant?"

"You would do this for me?" his voice spiraling up in confusion.

"Would you like a friendly face?"

He managed an unconcerned shrug."It really doesn't matter."

"Fine. Then show me where I'm to sleep, and you can go see her all by yourself."

"Not so hasty, de Chagny," Erik said swiftly. "Not so hasty. You might as well meet her tonight before turning in."

"I told you I'd come in handy."

He looked slightly put out. "You see me as a man in need?"

"Put that way...yes," Christine agreed. "Consider me your buffer zone."

"I will owe you one, I suppose," he said grudgingly, leading her up the stairs and down the hallway to the left.

"Oh, you got that right, Girard," she returned sweetly.

It was a novelty to have someone at his back. May as well take advantage of it. He led the way to his mother's room, his thoughts a little less gloomy, as he rapped his knuckles lightly on the door.

A barked "Come in!" and Erik ushered Christine inside the room. Her jaw slackened at the sight of so much red. It was in the flocked wallpaper, the rugs on the wood floor, the bed hangings and the comforter which covered the woman lying within the massive four poster.

Claire Girard only had eyes for the man now approaching her bed.

Christine regarded the elderly woman reclining against a mound of red pillows. She was reed slender, with long elegant hands and bobbed hair, mostly gray, but she could see that it had once been as black as her son's.

She never bothered to look at Christine.

"Took you long enough to get here," the woman's voice lilting and musical, even with the note of censure in it.

"Claire," Erik said stiffly. "How are you feeling?" his inflection the same as if he had spoken with her only two minutes ago and not two years.

His mother looked him up and down, her dark eyes burning with some intense emotion. "You let your hair grow long."

"Yes."

"Looks terrible."

"Thank you."

Her sharp gaze met his steady regard before switching to Christine. "Who is this?" her words clipped and cold.

"Christine, may I present to you the woman who bore me? Claire Girard. Claire, this is my good friend, Christine de Chagny."

"Why is she here, and where is Carla?"

"Christine was kind enough to get the loan of a car and accompany me. I sent Carla to bed."

The eagle eyes studied her, tired but watchful. "I meant...what is she doing in my room? I didn't invite her here."

"No, you didn't. I did."

"Not your place to allow strangers into my room."

"We can leave, Claire," and he turned to Christine. "I apologize. My mother isn't in the mood for-"

"Stay where you are, Erik," she commanded. "You are in an awful hurry to leave after having just arrived."

"It might help if you could find some manners from somewhere and use them."

Claire's laugh was rusty. "Manners? Never saw a need for them myself." She turned her dark gaze back on Christine. "Are you sleeping with my son?"

"That's none of your business," Erik snapped. "I see that time hasn't taught you better behavior."

"You're a good one to talk!" she snapped back.

Christine figuratively jumped into the middle of the two. "It's okay, Erik," and turned to the old woman who was anything but helpless. "He shares an apartment with me and my daughter, Mrs. Girard. It's entirely platonic though."

" _That,_ young woman, isn't possible," she stated imperiously.

"Oh, but it is, Mrs. Girard. It makes sense to share the cost of living in the city."

"You don't have to cater to her prying, Christine," and he eyed his mother with animosity. "Enough of this, Claire. I'll come back in the morning when you're a little less... _hostile_."

"Not even an acknowledgment of the past two years, Erik? Or the reason for your insatiable need to stay far away from me?"

"I think we just saw a prime example of that," he said flatly.

For Claire, it was still a shock to see him once again standing before her after two years, and she felt an emotion that could possibly pass for love. But perversely, she wouldn't concede to such a thing, nor act upon it. It was business as usual between mother and son. "Carla tells me you sing in one of those vulgar _rock_ bands. Won't use your God-given talents for good music to perform, so you hang out with talent-less nobodies. You always did have a lack of drive...among other things."

"He's not without talent, Mrs. Girard. Erik is very good at what he does. In fact, he's been offered contracts several times." Her sense of outrage for her friend's treatment at the hands of his mother, was unfortunately egging her on.

"I never said my son didn't have talent, young woman, now did I?" She regarded Christine with distaste before her gaze returned to Erik with weary acceptance. "We'll continue this tomorrow. Come back in the morning. _Alone_ this time," with a sharp glance Christine's way. "We will talk then."

"I am only here for one day," he warned.

"Yes, yes. Off with you now," signifying she was through with them.

He turned to go, his hand at Christine's back, and Claire eyed the couple speculatively.

Christine was gently propelled into the hallway, and waited patiently as he pulled the door shut behind him. "No offense, but your mother is a real piece of work."

"That's funny," he replied without humor. "She always said that about me."

"She's not exactly nurturing, is she?"

"Not a bit."

"Are you always so affectionate with each other?"

"Is there any other way?" Erik returned cynically.

"I'm beginning to see why you keep it down to one visit every couple of years."

He had no answer to that. "Come on. I'll show you where you're going to sleep."

Her eyes wandered over that blank face that was so hard to read. "Are you okay? You're grinding your teeth."

He looked down at her upturned face, and felt some of his tension ease. "Yes."

"I thought we were sharing a room?"

"I'll make up another bed elsewhere."

"We've already been through this, Erik." Christine narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "You're not going to take Carla up on her invitation, are you?"

"I won't even dignify that with an answer."

"Okay. Think of it as, um... the two of us at home, only now we're in the same bed. Why should that be a problem?"

"Easy for you to say," he muttered beneath his breath.

"Look. We're two adults, aren't we? I'm pretty sure we can each stay on our own side of the bed! What are you so afraid of? Think I'll invade your space and try to jump your bones?" she asked him, a little miffed.

He shook his head. "I'm afraid I might try to invade yours. Friends without benefits. Remember?"

Christine felt strangely relieved and a little resentful of his referral to their platonic relationship, even as she acknowledged that it had been her idea. "Sleeping in the same bed with no contact is not a big deal."

Giving in as gracefully as he could, he held an arm out to her. "Very well. You win, de Chagny. I am game if you are. Shall we retire?"

Christine looked up at him, bypassing the mask for the softening of her friend's mouth, and the warm look in eyes shining golden in the lamplight.

She took his proffered arm and smiled at him. "Yes. Let's."

* * *

Erik allowed her first crack at the bathroom down the hall, and Christine bathed in the old fashioned claw foot tub, the elderly water pipes groaning in protest. She brushed her teeth and slipped into flannel pajamas, glad that she brought them instead of something skimpier. She left the bathroom, brushing out her hair, passing Erik in the dim light of the hall.

"Comforting to know you'll monopolize a bathroom just about anywhere," he muttered to her.

"You're cruisin', Girard," Christine said, smiling when he began to hum loudly.

Once more in their room, she wandered over to the window and pulled the thick drape aside. Cold moonlight shone down on a landscape which only a month ago would have been filled with the earthy colors of autumn. Now it was barren and brown, the trees surrounding the property, empty of their leaves, which now drifted ankle deep in some places. Christine peered into the distance at a knoll lined with age-old elms, their thick trunks wider than she was tall. The glow of silver light glanced off the headstones of a cemetery plot.

Sentinels on the hillside.

She turned and studied the oil paintings on the walls, thankful that none of them were of somber faces with dark eyes that tended to follow her every move. She browsed a well stocked book shelf with a wide range of titles covering many genres, but the bulk of it contained a large collection of science fiction and thrillers. She left the books and moved toward the mahogany bed flanked by matching nightstands, paying close attention to an eight by ten photograph on the table nearest her. It was of a tall slender man with graying blonde hair, standing beside a desk and smiling for the camera. She smiled herself to see Erik's wide grin on someone else, and it made her that much more curious about these bits and pieces of a life he had once been a part of.

She was pulling the covers down, when he entered the room wearing gray sleep pants and his _violinists do it in the orchestra pit_ tee shirt, his hair slicked straight back, gleaming like wet tar. A white cotton mask had replaced the silicone, loosely covering his face, and allowing more air to reach it. Christine felt stupid for not thinking of it.

"You can take that off if you want to." She swallowed hard. "I've seen your face, so it's all right with me."

"Maybe _I_ am the one who is uncomfortable without it. One night will not make much of a difference."

"You're the boss," she said, trying to ignore her relief. "What side of the bed do you want?"

"Ladies first. Take your pick." He felt strangely relaxed, his nightmare visions of returning to this place having played out much differently. Thanks to the presence of Christine. He still did not want to be here, but he had someone on his side, looking out for him. It felt good.

She slid beneath the cold sheets, wishing she had left her socks on. "Not exactly toasty in here, is it?" her feet straying into his territory, as he joined her beneath the bed covers. She began rubbing her icy toes against his thin legs.

"I can't ever recall a time when it was," he answered, maintaining a careful no man's land between them. He gave her a darkling look when her small feet bridged the gap, caressing their way up his skinny calves.

Christine tugged the blankets up to her chin and yawned. "I saw a little cemetery from the window. Is it yours?"

"Yes. We have been feeding the worms here since the early 18th century."

"You're morbid, Girard."

"Not morbid. Just truthful."

"The house is that old?"

He shook his head. "The first one burned down. This one replaced it in 1883." He felt contented lying here with her, and briefly wondered when that would change to simple lust. Despite her serviceable flannels, he found her very desirable, and wanted nothing more at the moment than to kiss her senseless.

That quick, contentment fled and Erik moved a little closer to the edge of the bed, suddenly stiff and uncomfortable. Oh, yes. Very stiff. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep at all with Christine lying so close. This had been a bad idea. "Go to sleep.

"And keep your feet to yourself," he added, snapping at her.

"What's the matter, Girard? Past your bedtime?" she said a little peevishly.

"Yes. Now _go_ to sleep."

"I am. Just give me a minute, will you? Then I intend to sleep like the dead," she lied.

Easier said than done, knowing she wouldn't sleep a wink. She wanted to scoot closer and have him put his arms around her. Where was the harm in that?

"Good night," Christine whispered.

* * *

She was standing on a stage wearing an expensive designer gown; it flowed around her in lovely swirls of apple green silk as she crescendoed in the aria, liquid notes pouring joyfully from her throat. The piano at first, was doing a remarkable job of accompaniment, allowing her the opportunity to prove herself as a coloratura soprano, capable of delivering a performance worthy of Maria Callas or Beverly Sills. A perfect trill up to high C.

That was, until the stunning music began to overpower _her_ instrument, and the audience wanted only to hear the master seated at the concert grand. She stopped singing and turned, prepared to lecture him on the rules of accompaniment and was struck dumb by the man before her.

He was rail thin, and yet in spite of that thinness, cut an elegant figure. The tails of his formal coat were swept behind him, his back straight as he sat regally at the instrument he commanded so effortlessly, long legs exhibiting an easy nonchalance that only came from complete mastery of the gleaming piano. The pianist's head was canted to the side in a listening pose, eyes shut, his focus solely on the music flowing through his fingers, answering the call of his brain to move his hands in intricate melody. His tuxedo pants were crisp and formal, a dark satin stripe running down the outside seam, splashes and speckles of bright white marring the deeper black of the trousers.

Well, _yeah._ She told him he couldn't wear them to paint a kitchen ceiling and not expect to get spattered with the stuff.

 _Huh?_

Forget what he was wearing. What happened to Air des clochettes? But her beautiful crescendo was nothing compared to Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2, the large ferocious chords of the piece, amazingly fluid and hauntingly beautiful, his style reminiscent of...

...reminiscent of...

She woke with a start, feeling disoriented, the music still lingering in her ears. She turned over and opened her eyes.

Erik.

Her arm swept out, expecting to encounter some bony part of him in the darkness of early morning and found nothing. Okay. He's in the bathroom. Christine sat up and looked around the obviously empty room.

 _Erik is in the bathroom, and I just woke up._

But the luscious music continued. It was the second movement of the piece and her personal favorite. One of the best renditions of the Adagio sostenuto since Rachmaninoff himself first performed it.

Where had she heard that?

A young virtuoso with untold potential.

A bubble of thought was coalescing into a rising certainty, and she shoved the covers back, jumping out of bed. A long shiver went up her spine from the chill air of the room, a cold draft from the floor causing her toes to curl. "Her nibs ever consider running the furnace a little more often?" she muttered.

Hopping from foot to foot, she hurriedly turned on the bedside lamp before going any further in the unfamiliar room. Christine snatched her sweater off the back of a chair where she'd thrown it, and slipped on a pair of warm fuzzy socks she dug out of her suitcase.

She cast one last longing glance at the cozy nest of quilts on the bed, before stepping out into the hallway and heading toward the stairs. There was just enough frosty moonlight from an oriel window at the far end of the hall, showing the way.

She knew what she would find downstairs.

 _Who_ she would find.

* * *

 **Next chapter- Sing me some blues. A little history. Where did everybody go?**


	15. Cold Comfort

**_Long_ chapter, folks. It got away from me, so just do the best you can ;)**

* * *

"The name threw me. Among other things. That's why it took me so long to figure it out," she said to his back. "I-I remember reading somewhere that you began formal piano lessons when you were barely out of diapers."

She was trying for a little levity, when all Christine felt now was a bit of awe, and an unaccustomed shyness toward him, which she attempted to throw off. "I cannot _believe_ you fooled me like this."

"What happened to your... sleeping like the dead?" he replied, not bothering to turn around.

She managed a shrug. "I was, until a certain musical genius woke me up. You fooled me good and I'd just like to know-"

She hesitated. _What if he wasn't?_

"Go ahead," he urged her. "You can say it."

"All right, Mr. _Mercer._ Why?"

"There now. That wasn't so difficult, was it?" still not looking at her as he lightly played a repeating loop of When I Come Around by Green Day.

He was.

The details from the news media at the time were still foggy; after all, she had been the mother of an active two year old with a marriage headed for the rocks, and not paying close attention, but she knew there had been an accident, his meteoric rise to fame, one of its victims. He had disappeared from the public eye, dropping out of sight as though he'd never been. Having listened to his astounding Rachmaninoff concerto, Christine could mourn for what had been lost.

She had simply followed the music to this room which was just past the parlor, still in a state of disbelief that she had been living with Erik Mercer for months and hadn't guessed it until now. To the mainstream public, it wouldn't mean very much, but to any self-respecting piano aficionado, it would mean plenty. Having sung in numerous piano bars with accompaniment anywhere from passable to mediocre, Christine could appreciate a true master of his craft, of which Erik was at the top. The very air still quivered with the last sumptuous notes of the Rachmaninov piece- a true banquet of sound for the listener.

He at last turned around on the bench and said quietly, "The term is trite now, but I was considered a child prodigy, my life governed by structured days and exacting lessons." His mouth curled into a bitter smile. "You have met my mother, so I'm sure you have an idea of what that would entail. I actually used the violin in my infrequent leisure time, just to unwind a little."

"Okay, but what about the name discrepancy?" her temporary reserve vanishing as though it had never been. Monumental talent aside, he was still her friend and had been for months.

"Mercer is my mother's maiden name, as well as my middle name. She insisted on my using it for the stage."

"What did your father say about that? He was an outstanding musician in his own right...violin, wasn't it?"

"He was better known in Europe than here in the U.S. By the time I started performing professionally, he had died."

"I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "It was years ago."

"Were you... close to him?"

He studied the floor, his hair a dark curtain, shielding him from her curious eyes. "He was a better father than Claire was a mother, but he was never openly affectionate," he looked up at her, "if that's what you mean."

Christine walked over to the bench, and Erik made room for her as she tugged her sweater closer against the chilly air. She regarded him fondly in his sleep pants and unlaced boots, his old leather jacket hastily thrown on over the faded tee. Her mouth split into a wide grin. "Look at us, would you? Dressed to the nines and nowhere to go."

He took in her serviceable blue flannel pajamas with little white polka dots, and the thick red socks she had slipped over her icy feet. A bulky rose colored sweater was clutched tightly across her breasts completing her colorful ensemble. "Pink suits you. You should wear it more often."

Wearing nothing would suit you much better, he amended, his midnight ramblings due to a very active imagination, a very excitable appendage, and the fact that he could simply reach over and...

He had lain beside her, staring at the back of her head, his hand longing to creep out across the landscape of her body, like a shy animal wary of a trap- to slowly stroke its way down her side and burrow beneath her shirt. Not a good idea, as he studied Christine, her mare's nest of hair the only thing visible, the rest buried beneath a pile of quilts. Just recalling that hot and sweet moment in the bathroom not so very long ago, raised his body temperature by a few degrees, and that was no mean feat. Erik left the bed, not sure if what he needed was a cold shower to bank the fires of longing, or a walk around the house in the frosty air, followed by a dive into the fish pond filled with his mother's prized Koi. Instead, he had retreated downstairs to the music room and to a slightly out of tune grand piano.

He now looked over at the woman beside him, all of his prurient thoughts about her, front and center again. To cover his sudden agitation, he swung back to the keys, and launched into one of his favorite jazz pieces.

" _You ain't been blue;_

 _No, no, no._

 _You ain't been blue,_

 _'T_ _il you've had that mood indigo."_

Christine listened in admiration as he began to sing, his complete ease and proficiency in different genres a joy to see and hear. But it wasn't enough. She wanted to sing too, and when Erik tilted his head at her with a slight nod of encouragement, she did.

" _That feelin_ _'_ _goes stealin_ _'_ _right down to my shoes._ _While I just sit here and sigh, go along blues,"_ and she playfully waggled her fingers in a sweeping motion. " _Skedaddle, blues."_

At nearly two o'clock in the morning, dressed in their odds and ends, she had never enjoyed a time like this one, as if they had been harmonizing together for years, their heads leaning toward one another, black nearly touching blonde- a study in contrasts.

 _"Always get that mood indigo,_

 _Since my baby said goodbye._

 _In the evenin' when the lights are low,_

 _I'm so lonesome I could cry."_

Her thigh was pressed close to his, their voices blending and looping around one another, her eyes fastened on the long pale fingers, so strong and true. It was marvelous. A tiny moment in time, neither planned or sought out, had brought something wonderful to her life that she would never forget. The best times were often the most irrelevant- and the sweetest.

" _'Cause there's nobody who cares about me,_

 _I'm just a soul who's bluer than blue can be._

 _When I get that mood indigo,_

 _I could lay me down and die."_

Their hasty duet ended with matching smiles of appreciation. "Wow. I'm sitting here with Erik Mercer, the preeminent virtuoso of the ivories! No keyboard is beyond his talented fingers," she said, as awestruck as any backstage groupie, but she still needed to know.

" _Why_ didn't you tell me who you were?" she pressed.

"I was a different man then. Besides... for all I knew, you'd never even heard of me," he replied in amusement. "Really, Christine...does it matter?"

She shrugged. "I suppose not, but you were always a favorite of mine. Until I got married and had Min, I followed your career fairly close," and started ticking off some of his numerous awards on her fingers. "Promising new talent of...2003, wasn't it?" At his slight nod, she ticked off another finger. "The Gilmore Artist Award the following year, and any number of kudos and recognition over the next decade, topped by a Grammy for that piano piece of yours, Reckless Madman." She tucked her hands beneath her thighs, and began swinging her legs as she sat beside him. "How'd I do?"

"Very well, but you left out the Global Music Award for my first CD, Key Confessions."

"Oops!" she responded with a chuckle. "Can't believe I forgot _that_ , O Great One!"

"You're not too shabby yourself, de Chagny. If you ever give up cleaning the theatre, you should try singing there."

"I'll uh, have to get back to you on that." She dropped her eyes from the warm look in his, and began fiddling with her hands. "You're amazing, my friend! No brand of music is beyond your abilities. And that's not even counting your expertise with a violin."

He grunted as one foot tapped nervously on the floor, obviously uncomfortable with praise. "You are babbling, Christine."

"Yes, but it's admiring babble, so there's a difference," she protested. "I played your CDs constantly; you accompanied me in just about everything I did around the apartment or in the car, especially your collection of classics. I rocked Min to sleep with Mozart's Wiegenlied many times, for God's sake! It was just you, me, and Minnie on those nights. See! We even liked you then," and she laughed a little self-consciously. "I played your music the night I realized that my marriage was over."

"Did it help any?" he asked her softly.

"Yes," she said simply. "On some level it did. But what do you know? Here we are...the three of us, together again. Life's funny, isn't it?"

"And _you_ are babbling again," but it was imparted with a much lighter tone this time. "You sound like one of those half-wits that always demanded an interview, then twisted my words beyond recognition. Their spin was more titillating to readers."

"Well, thanks a lot!"

"I didn't say you were," he chided her gently. "Merely sounded like one."

"Oh? And that helps?" mimicking him.

He put a hand to his chest and gave a tiny bow. "My apologies, Ms. de Chagny."

"Okay, okay. You're forgiven. But what is so titillating about a piano except the sounds that come out of it?"

"The questions _began_ with music, then quickly moved on to juicier things. "How much money I made...did I resent my mother's influence with my career? What backstage hanger-on was I sleeping with?" He pressed both hands to his bony knees. "My rec drug of choice? They wanted details. Talent was never enough."

"So what was it?"

"What was...?" looking at her with one invisible eyebrow raised.

"Your drug of choice."

"Didn't have one."

" _Really?_ "

Both scant eyebrows shot up. "Why so surprised? I have enough strikes against me. I certainly didn't need a monkey perched on one shoulder, picking at my brain."

"Well, well. You could be the poster boy for good clean fun."

"Hardly. I enjoyed a good bottle of scotch from time to time."

"What's wrong with that? A drink in the evening after a hard day tickling the ivories was deserved, I'd say."

He snorted disparagingly. "No. Nothing wrong with _a_ drink. I meant the entire bottle."

"Ouch. Binge drinker. That'll kill your liver, Girard."

"I no longer do that," and when she made a slight noise of skepticism, he shrugged one shoulder. "I don't require a whole fifth. That one time I believe you are referring to, doesn't count. What about you? Ever dabble?"

"In college," and shrugged, "some...yeah." She leaned toward him and flicked a finger against his jaw. "Present company excluded, of course."

"Of course," his lips curling into a faint smile.

"So what smut _did_ you give to your adoring public?" She twirled a finger. "Back up to the groupies at the stage door, 'kay?" With a cheerful grin, she leaned forward, chin in hand and stared attentively at him.

He cleared his throat, looking away from her curiosity. "What is it you want to hear? Details? Unfortunately, I am not the usual preference women have for male companionship. No handsome face here, is there? No rock hard biceps and six pack abs."

"I hate those," she lied.

"Yes, I'm sure you do," he sniffed, clearly not believing her.

"Still... you're not a thirty-seven year old virgin, are you, Girard? You got your feet wet from time to time, didn't you? Or do I mean your hands dirty? With Carla?"

"As you well know, I've dipped a toe or two," he replied, flashing his fifty mega-watt snaggle toothed grin.

Seeing it, a flock of swallows was let loose in her stomach. She was beginning to crave that goofy grin of his. "What about your mask? Didn't any questions arise because of it?" Christine looked at him dubiously. "Hey! I don't remember anyone mentioning a mask. Hell, my favorite CD has a picture on the back of the case showing you seated at the piano. An average guy...kind of skinny," and smiled affectionately at him, "but average. There isn't any kind of mask that I can see!"

"Which one?"

"Pardon?"

"Which CD do you have?"

"Oh. Well among others, my favorite is Evocative. I love the piece called In the Eye's Mind. It's so beautifully creepy."

"Thank you," he returned dryly. "I think."

She straightened up and looked at him in surprise. "Tell me if it's none of my business... but don't you still collect royalties from your recordings? There's a slew of 'em."

He nodded absently, picking at a loose thread on his shirt. "My funds took a direct hit when my mother managed things while I was... unable to do so. Among other things, she had a very expensive hobby of collecting Koi fish, and was not above importing some from Japan that cost upward of $3,000.00. Each. Knowing this, when I was released from Smith's Grove, the first thing that I did was close out the old account and open a new one, Claire-free. But yes... anytime my recordings are sold in a store or broadcast in any capacity, such as an internet program or used in clubs or performance venues, to name a few, I make money." Erik studied her silently for a handful of seconds. "I have always made enough in the past two years, my needs being few, that I have never had to touch it," and to Christine, he sounded almost defensive.

She put her hand on his arm, feeling the wiry muscle knot and tense. "Hey! I have no designs on the money you've salted away," her turn to feel slightly defensive. "You should have just told me to butt out."

"Butt out, Christine," he returned, his eyes appearing to crinkle in amusement.

"Uh uh. Too late for that, Girard," she replied, wagging a finger at him. "What about the mask? That the one you mentioned on the drive here?"

"Yes," his tone holding a certain amount of bitterness and regret. "It was nearly perfect. It was made by an animatronics company in California to my own specifications; measurements of my skull, calibrations of facial bone density and contour, using a process of digital 3D. It was very thin and pliable... the color resembled human flesh so well, that with a little artfully applied make-up, no one was the wiser. Hence my acquiring a driver's license at the time. It was really quite ingenious, thin enough to show movement of the mimetic muscles beneath it, instead of a robotic blankness, and thicker in just the right places. It had a nicely aquiline nose as its centerpiece and realistic eyebrows made from actual hair. It even had the shadowing of a beard coming in. By no means did it make me handsome, but it did something even better."

"What?"

"It made me normal."

Christine swallowed an annoying lump in her throat. "Normal is so overrated."

"So saith the woman with the pretty face," Erik said wryly. "I liked normal. Unfortunately, it had one major flaw."

"Which was?"

"It molded so closely to the skin, it had ravaged my face in a very short amount of time, creating a perfect breeding ground for bacteria. My schedule was hectic, I didn't allow enough down time without the mask, and I paid the price with an infection. My mother was of the impression that she knew more than the doctors, and insisted that it would be perfectly all right to wear it while taking antibiotics. This was against the strenuous objections of the doctors, you understand, and my performances suffered because of the worsening condition."

"You can take a swing at me if you want, but did you always do what your mother told you?"

He gave a slight nod. "In the business of running my career, yes, and for years I permitted her to do so. She was managing things very well, allowing me to focus on my music, but I started to question her judgment.

"Do you know what a debridement is, Christine?"

"No."

"Debridement removes dead tissue from a wound. New tissue can't grow without removing the old. By then, my face was nothing more than an oozing wound. Smelled like one too. Not at all pleasant." He yawned and scratched at his flat belly. "I ended up in the hospital where they used laser surgery to remove the necrotic material. It eventually healed, although the skin on my face is now patchwork, as you have seen for yourself."

She suddenly found her socks very interesting. "Um, no. I never noticed."

He studied her in turn. "Ah. You couldn't get past the center of Erik's face."

Christine finally looked up at him, nodding guiltily.

"It's all right, de Chagny. I am well aware of what I present to the world," he said gently, before continuing. "When I recovered, my mother expected me to go on as though nothing had happened. Under the circumstances, I refused, and essentially _fired_ her, and began to oversee my own career, even moving out of the house and finding an apartment in the city. I had considered an agent to handle things in my stead, but after years of dealing with Claire, I decided I could manage on my own. It was a move that was a long time coming, but it was the right one, although I was hesitant to go back in front of a live audience. For years I recorded my music on a soundstage with only the odd concert performed. Those were nearly always in a smaller venue."

"I'll bet Claire loved that," meaning the exact opposite.

"Yes, she told me so, very stridently, and in a voice loud enough to rattle windows," Erik said dryly.

"You don't say? I thought your mother would be good at the cold cutting sort of anger, but throw a hissy fit?"

"Trust me...she is excellent at both."

"Was reconstructive surgery ever considered? They can do miracles nowadays."

He snorted his disgust. "There was never enough time. In the beginning, performances were scheduled nearly on top of one another, and later I had a music contract to fulfill and piano endorsements to make. Although I am not really certain if I would have wanted surgery. It is a painful, years long process and requires much dedication, but the option to say yes or no was never truly considered."

"Okay. Your eyes. They are very dark on my CD case..." She let her sentence hang as she regarded his very _not_ dark eyes.

He shrugged. "Contacts. Claire considered my eyes bestial."

"What does _she_ know? I like your eyes. They're different."

"They are that," he agreed, allowing himself a tiny smirk. Just a little one.

"Was she a Mommie Dearest?"

His brow wrinkled beneath the mask. "A what?"

"You know... a woman who made her life look perfect in the public eye, but in reality it was a nightmare."

He laughed without humor. "No. Claire was at least honest about that. Our lives were pretty much always a nightmare. At least it was after my father died."

"Did you ever want to just stop?"

"Many times. I was fast approaching burn out."

"Why do you call your mother by her given name?"

He looked at her with a jaundiced eye. "If you ever decide to get out of the cleaning business, de Chagny, you can apply for journalist. You rival _them_ with the questions." At her unrepentant stare, he sighed. "Because it puts a welcome distance between us."

"Was it always so bad?"

"As far back as I can remember. It rarely took the form of physical punishment; my father wouldn't have permitted it, but when I was still a child, she wasn't beyond a well placed slap or pinch when no one was looking. Mostly it was her coldness, which she never hid; the sense of shame every time she looked at me." He tugged at his hair. "There was a deep and abiding disappointment there, Christine, and I knew at a young age that I could never win her approval. You cannot begin to understand how shattering that can be to a child," the pain in his voice nothing but a ghostly echo of that earlier time.

"But you had your father and sister. That must have meant something."

"It did, but I had a knack for finding trouble in my teens; it caused a certain amount of discord between my parents. They certainly didn't thank me for it."

"Oh, come on, Erik! No kid worth the name ever got through their teen years without making their parents crazy!" She laughed. "Hell. Do you know how many times I ditched school and spent the day at the mall?"

"I hot wired a car and drove it across the state line into Massachusetts. I was speeding and ended up in a ditch upside down."

"Well," Christine said, trying and failing to hide her shock. "Your knack for trouble certainly outshone mine! I'll give you that." Her mall days seemed very trite by comparison. "Why?"

Erik shrugged. "Ever do anything on a whim?"

"You mean like having a big juicy burger instead of the broiled fish, or going on a shopping spree when I couldn't afford it? Sure. Stealing a car?" and she rolled her eyes at him. "Not so much. So you just happened to be walking past a cool car one afternoon, and said to yourself, 'Erik, my boy... that looks like one fast ride. Let's take it for a spin and see how fast it'll go.' "

He shook his head. "Not quite like that. It was more of a... freak asks pretty girl out to the school dance, Pretty Girl laughs in Freak's face, but Pretty Girl accepts Handsome Jock's invitation. In Handsome Jock's brand new, shiny Camaro. While the beautiful couple are dancing the night away, Freak decides to go for a spin- in Handsome Jock's car."

"How old were you?"

"According to my father, old enough to know better. I was sixteen."

"What happened? Were you hurt?"

He laced his hands together and systematically cracked each knuckle, the sound jarring in the otherwise still room. "Nothing that mattered," and shrugged negligently. "Cuts and bruises. After I was removed from the car, I was escorted to the nearest police station and booked. My father had to cancel a trip to come and get me, my mother didn't bother. I was given probation since it was a first time offense, and although I never did _that_ again, I made up for it by picking fights with anyone stupid enough to tangle with me."

"So you _had_ a temper. I don't see any evidence of it now. It was probably brought on by way too much practice and not enough fun. Hell...you're a pussy cat, Girard. After meeting your mother, it's not surprising that you lost it from time to time."

"It was a little more often than that," he said with a derisive snort. "The worst thing about my school years, was the fact that I brought it on myself. For years I was home schooled, but when I hit ten, I began to rebel. I wanted friends. And fun. I argued to be allowed to go to school like other kids." He looked at Christine with more than a little rancor as he recalled that time in his life. "After a year of stating my case, somehow I was able to get through to my father, who in turn, managed to overturn my mother."

"And? Bad move?"

"Yes. You could say that. At the tender age of eleven, I discovered from day one, that I was the oddball and that wasn't going to change anytime soon. Name calling and isolation mostly, but at times, it became physical."

She was horrified. "You put up with that shit every day? Why didn't you tell your father what was happening?"

"After arguing for my freedom, I wasn't about to concede to my mother how wrong I had been. She would have taken what was left of my ego and chopped it up into tiny pieces."

Christine nodded in sympathy. "I hear ya."

"When I was on the receiving end of a bad beating by some of the school's football team, I managed to break the wrist of the team's wide receiver. Uh, the very same Handsome Jock in the car incident. Actually, Will Olson was one of the first kids in school offended by me walking the halls with my limbs intact, and he tried to change that many times over the years. This particular time, it didn't matter that they gave me a concussion and nearly broke my jaw, putting me in the hospital overnight. Their parents considered the unprovoked attack on the school pariah to be blameless. _I_ was the instigator for simply existing. Better yet, I had single-handedly ended their run for a championship that year." He glanced ruefully at her. "That, more than the injuries to their offspring, I think, fueled their rage. Football is a religion unto itself in this neck of the woods. Budding concert pianists need not apply."

"No," Christine said wisely, "it extends much further than that. It's a national obsession to cheer from your ratty armchair while big dumb millionaires throw and catch a ball better than the other team's big dumb millionaires."

"Well, it's better than the pastime in ancient Rome, where big dumb millionaires would pit a slave against a lion or two and cheer the lion."

"True," she replied with a grin and a yawn. "So what happened after the jocks were sidelined and Erik caught hell for it?"

" _Sooo_...my father decided employment for his only son and heir was just what was needed, and I had a succession of jobs," his lips curling up in a reminiscent smile, "enter the sewer cleaning and Wacky Jack's. After a summer of menial labor, he then decided a change of location was the answer and took me to France with him. I studied under some of the best maestros in the world, and held my first public piano recital at the La Cigale when I was nineteen."

"Wow. France! Would I give anything to see Paris! The Opera Garnier...ever go there?"

"Many times. I even performed with the orchestra on two occasions in their young musicians' program."

"Very cool. Why France?"

My father was French by birth and kept an apartment in the rue des Rosiers in Paris."

"Was the street, pastry-lined, by any chance?"

"Patisseries? Yes. Some very good ones, if my father was any judge," he replied lightly. "He couldn't start his day without a cup of cafe crème and a croissant."

His abnormally long fingers clutched at the edges of the bench on which they sat. "My mother chose to stay here, only visiting from time to time, but my sister Jeannette would join us for the odd summer. It was one of the nicest periods of my life. I felt almost human by then...for a short while anyway.

"When I was twenty, he caught the flu just before Christmas that year and died from complications."

"Did you come back here?"

"Yes. I still had a faint hope that my mother and I could build some bridges and learn to respect one another."

"Didn't happen, did it?"

"No. It was much too late for that. Probably began at my birth. The shock was too much for her, I suppose." He looked at her, his eyes weary and cynical. "Her bouncing baby boy looked more like a bouncing baby gargoyle. But I loved her once. It is the reason I tried to please her so often and for so long."

"What caused the final rift?"

"Her blame and my guilt," his tone suggesting she should go no further.

And she wouldn't. Christine knew a stop sign when she saw it. "Do you miss performing as a concert pianist?"

"Yes...and no. Sharing my...gift was enjoyable for me. Feeling exposed to the glare of a predatory media was not."

"Which is why you dodge your popularity at LipSync."

"Yes."

"What made you choose rock to make a living?"

"Someone once suggested it." He rose to his feet. "It's late, Christine. Go on to bed."

"Come with me."

"In a little while," he said softly.

She stood up and reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his. She knew more about him now than she had before, but there was still a large chunk missing. The part where he went away for three years of his life.

And the reason for it.

Christine felt a sudden fierce wave of protectiveness. "Friends. Remember?" Rising on tiptoe, she pecked his cheek, and left him standing there.

* * *

Her eyes opened to a gray morning, the chill in the air more pronounced now that she had lost her sleep buddy.

Erik had finally come to bed.

He had slid in beside her at some point and they had inevitably gravitated toward each other. Sound asleep, of course, and she was fairly certain that she had only dreamed his hand in her hair.

A drowsy Christine had awoken at one point, lying in a cocoon of warmth, with Erik's arms around her, her head pillowed on his thin shoulder. She splayed her fingers across the gently rising chest beneath her hand, his arms tightening in response, content as she hadn't been in a very long time. If ever. Who knew? Girard was a cuddler. She slipped easily back into sleep, awakening to a sadly empty bed.

She had just returned from the bathroom when he showed up in their room with a cup of coffee and a dish of toast. "I think I'll keep you," she told him gratefully as he handed her the mug.

"Only until I screw up, and then I get chucked out the window," he replied knowingly, setting the plate down on the night table.

She took a healthy sip of her coffee and looked with interest around the room. "So this was your bedroom growing up? Kind of impersonal."

"Most of my things went with me when I moved out years ago. Anything else I left behind was probably boxed up the same day I became an inmate at Smith's Grove." He gestured at the bookshelf. "Except for those."

She nodded at the eight by ten picture on the nightstand. "And this. Your dad, right? I can see the resemblance. You have his smile," and in spite of his snort, "oh, yes, you do. It's there."

Before she could say more, he changed the subject. "I thought you would like your first cup of java without Carla's barbed innuendos and the chance for indigestion."

"You make it sound like she could flay me with her tongue, or at the least, give me a sour stomach."

"I think you can hold your own pretty well against her."

"Like I said, Girard, I'm gonna keep you," giving him a slow wink.

"Looked outside lately?"

"No. Should I?"

"It started snowing during the night, and it's beginning to pile up. I would like to leave right now, but I promised Claire I would speak with her this morning," he said reluctantly.

"Well, it is the reason for us being here."

"It will not take long, then we should think about starting back home before we get snowed in. Carla will be staying one more night until the roads are clear, then Martha, my mother's cook and housekeeper, should be able to get through. She'll stay with Claire until she isn't needed. A pity about the weather. I was going to take you for a walk up to the cemetery before we left this afternoon."

"I would have liked that." She picked up a piece of toast and nibbled on it. "Look, you can tell me I'm out of line, but...do you think she's going to ask you to move back in with her?"

He sat down on the bed one leg bent beneath him, and turned toward her. "Afraid you might end up having to pay all the rent again?" grinning in that crooked way that she loved.

Wait,

Wait,

Wait.

 _Loved?_

"Smart ass," she muttered. "I would have a hard time consoling a little girl I know if you left."

"Oh? What about the little girl's mama?"

"Her too," she mumbled, trying for unconcerned and not succeeding.

"I'm glad to hear it," he said in a low voice, his eyes searching hers for...

"What?" she blurted.

Erik dropped his gaze from hers and pushed the dish closer to her. "Eat your toast like a good girl."

"Yes, _dear."_ She chewed and swallowed a bit of toast before demanding, "Well? Answer the question, Girard. I need to get dressed and you're in the way!"

"Go ahead. _I_ don't mind in the least," and he settled back to enjoy the show, angular body stretched out, ankles crossed, hands behind his head. "You have a very captive audience."

Christine set her coffee cup down with a clunk and picked up a pillow. "Don't make me hit you," she warned.

"No!" he pleaded, "don't shoot," hard put to keep from laughing. He snatched her napkin off of the tray and balled it up, pulling his arm back. "Now _I_ am armed and dangerous."

"Dangerous? Give me a break!" and threw the pillow on the bed. "Just answer the damned question, Erik! Are you leaving us?"

With an exaggerated sigh, he tossed the paper napkin onto the tray and got to his feet, glancing over his shoulder before he left the room. "What do you think?"

She stared after him for a second with narrowed eyes. "You don't _want_ to know what I think."

Christine dressed hurriedly in jeans and a red pullover, straightened up the room, and took the tray downstairs to a thankfully empty kitchen. She washed the breakfast dishes, then dug her phone out of her jacket and texted Louise, or tried to. No signal. With a curse at their location, the weather, and her phone, she grabbed her coat and prepared for a trip outside. Erik was probably still with Godzilla, and Carla, the leetle lizard was no doubt with them. Giving a sniff, she went out the back door.

Into a virtual blizzard.

She decided to head for higher ground despite the weather, and started walking in the direction of the cemetery, the cutting wind sending icy pellets of snow into her exposed face. "This is not fun," she muttered, as she trudged further away from the house, plowing through a good five inches of the white stuff. She glanced uneasily toward the sky, before squinting at the white looming shapes of shrubbery surrounding her, appearing hunched over and smothered in cotton wool. The slope she slipped and slid part way up was enough to get her text message out. She huddled beneath the hood of her coat as fat snow flakes tried to make themselves at home in her eyelashes and skittered across her nose.

 _Christine_ **\- Everything okay? How's Min?**

 _Louise_ **\- I burnt the bacon this morning, Min lost her mouse, & Phil used all the hot water. Other than that, everythin** **g** **'s peachy :)**

 _Christine_ **\- Scoob** **'s a gerbil, Lou, but** **sometimes** **he** **likes to travel** **, lol. So how are you** **&** **the counse** **l** **or getti** **n** **on?** **Aside from the water situation.**

 _Louise_ **\- Better.** **It's gr8 to have Phil h** **o** **me. We're enjoyin gettin reacquainted :)** **He slept on the couch, by the way. What about you** **&** **the Voice?**

 _Christine_ **-** **We had an impromptu jazz session last night. We made beautiful music togeth'** **r.**

 _Louise_ **\- Ah ha! Lervely.** **How is he in the sack?** **Ya know what they say: shy in the streets, a freak in the sheets ;** **)**

 _Christine_ **\- Down, girl. It** _ **was**_ **music.** **He's amazing, by the way.** **Erik is with the Dragon Lady now, but we're leaving soon for home. It's snowing pretty good and he doesn't want to stay longer than he has to.**

 _Louise_ **\- Do I sense a hint of animosity? Dragon Lady = Erik's mom?"**

 _Christine_ **\- Yep. Carla the Lizard is also here. Tryin her best to get in Erik's pants.**

 _Louise_ **-** **Keep her out** **of em** **! Get in** **em yourself!** **Geez. You get to have all the fun** **while I sweep up mouse shit** **!** **No fair :** **-(**

 _Christine_ **\- Fun, hell! I need a whip and a chair for these two.**

 _Louise_ **-** **You can tell me all bout it later. Be safe!** **We have a shit load of snow comin.**

 _Christine_ **\- Will do. Tell Minnie** **we'll** **see her soon!**

* * *

"Aside from your deplorable choice of employment, what have you been doing since disappearing off the ends of the earth?" she asked, as he stood silently by the door watching her.

"Why are you showing an interest in my welfare now?"

"I have always had an interest in your welfare."

"Which is why you always made sure to remind me of how cheated you were by my lack of a viable nose. It was difficult for you to compare my baby pictures to your friends' progeny. No bragging rights there! And my welfare extended to you making the obligatory once a month visit to Smith's Grove, where you said hello and goodbye with not a word in between, all the while shooting accusatory looks at me. Oh, and let's not forget those status updates and signing the checks to keep me there!"

"Your attitude and subsequent disappearance two years ago, told me that you would not welcome my presence, Erik. When did that change?"

"It didn't."

"Are you serious about this woman?" switching subjects before he decided to walk out the door.

"Are you by any chance referring to Christine?"

"You know exactly to whom I refer. Do not play dense with me!"

"Why do you want to know, Claire? You weren't exactly polite to her last night, and if you think for one minute that we're going to sit and have a chat about Christine, disabuse yourself of that notion right now!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Erik! Do sit down! You're giving me a stiff neck, and I have enough aches and pains as it is. I'm an old woman."

"Oh no. I will not touch that last remark at all. A woman's age is not open for discussion," but reluctantly, he walked over to a chair and sat down, eying her guardedly. His mother was well wrapped in an afghan, sitting in a chair by the window, her swollen ankle stretched out on a padded footstool.

"Could you please just answer the question? It is a simple one and in no way is it meant to denigrate her."

"We are friends. No more, no less," only hesitating a fraction when he said it.

She wanted to believe him. She _should_ believe him, but he was much too protective of the woman for mere friendship. The de Chagny woman was attractive, whereas her son was anything but. It made sense that the two were living together platonically to help pay rent, but she would have to move slowly- Erik without a doubt, could be tetchy. "What about Carla? She seems willing to continue where you both left off."

"Not interested," he said in a bored tone.

"How can you not be?" she insisted, trying to draw him out. "Clearly she is not averse to a relationship with _you_. What could be better? Your little friend has her own baggage, what with a child from another man. Why, she-"

Erik leaned forward and Claire closed her mouth in a hurry, the look in his eyes distinctly unfriendly. "Say another word about Christine _or_ her daughter, and I get up and leave. Do you understand, Claire?"

His words had been uttered in a low, pleasant drawl without a whisper of animosity, but his hostile eyes said all she needed to know. Devil's eyes. She had always hated them. And not for the first time, she wondered where they had come from. He was nothing like her darling Jeannette, and as he stared back at her, she found herself wishing again that it had been Erik who died that night.

And as usual, she felt a momentary twinge of shame that she could feel such a lack of connection to her first born. She had tried very hard to love him as he deserved to be loved and had failed miserably. Every single time her eyes settled on her son, she had felt as though she was deficient as a woman, often wondering on sleepless nights if it was all somehow her fault that she had bred such a deviation from normal. Erik was her blood and bone, and despite his musical talent and high intelligence, she would have given anything to have an average little boy with an average little boy's regular features and intellect.

Even going back generations, there had never been such a break from conventional as her son, and aside from her late night musings, she was quite certain the aberration originated on Alain's side. Those French! But she had to consider her family line. The Mercers would die out with Erik if he didn't reproduce, and there was always a good chance that a child of his would be normal. Look at her daughter. Finding a woman willing to marry and bed him would be a dilemma, if not for Carla.

"Agree to it, or I leave now," he said softly.

"Of course. Not another word about her then, but consider Carla before she decides to move on, and leaves you high and dry."

"Can we get to the reason for my being here?"

His mother sighed in exasperation. "Carla _is_ the reason for your being here, but you have been especially obtuse about it. I'm not getting any younger and I would like a grandchild before I die."

Erik got to his feet. "It was a pleasure seeing you again, Claire. Have a nice life," and walked to the door. He was bluffing. He had checked out the weather after getting the last report of accumulation totals, and knew they would be spending another night. He just hadn't informed Christine yet.

"Erik! Wait... sit down and let me explain.

"Please."

The word please, got his attention. His mother rarely, if ever used the word. "Explain what?" his hand hovering over the door knob.

"Will you sit down, and try to have a little forbearance?" and was gratified to have him come back and sink into his chair again.

"All right. I am sitting. Make sense this time. What does Carla have to do with my being here?"

"I see that you have learned to moderate your temper a bit in five years."

"That will happen with threats of further incarceration hanging over one's head," he said dryly. "Get to the punch line, Claire."

"Very well," she said with mild annoyance. He was determined to be difficult and it irked her that she had so very little control over him now. He no longer sought her approval. "I want to see you settled down before I die. A wife... children. There are tests now that can determine the chances of deformity in any child you sire. Who will fulfill the role of mother unless it is Carla? She would have been willing to marry you before, if you had bothered asking her, and she has intimated to me that she is still willing. You must admit, that it was quite fortuitous that you both ended up at the same establishment!"

"Fortuitous for whom exactly? This is between you and Giudicelli. Has been ever since I found myself saddled with her in the band."

"Then why didn't you leave, Erik? Nothing ever stopped you before, I've been told."

"I have my reasons."

"You know very well that Carla is the daughter of my best friend, Davina. We were in school together and inseparable at one time, and I have wished to join our two families together by marriage and bloodline. This land which has been in my family for over three hundred years, will remain with Mercer descendants. Think of the timber rights! It's a substantial sum alone. As long as the house and several acres of property remain, including the cemetery, you could sell off the rest for a tidy profit someday."

"I could," he agreed, and rose to his feet, "if I was interested. Which I am not. For all of your pride in this place, I have none. But it's obvious you haven't kept up with its maintenance, which does surprise me. You had enough of my earnings to see it through."

"I do well enough," she replied, looking down her long nose at him. "Repair costs haven't become cheaper as you seem to imply."

"You should move into a nice apartment in town."

"Not possible. This is my home."

"You're alone here. That doesn't bother you?"

"Why should it? Martha comes in everyday and will stay if I ask her."

"Yes. That is what I expected you to say." Eager to find Christine, he moved toward the door. "It appears that we will be extending our stay for one more night. I'll let you rest now."

"Carla said there are snow advisories posted for today and into tomorrow. There is already a substantial amount on the ground. You are making a wise decision."

"I just hope Christine sees it that way," he responded grimly.

* * *

They were in the kitchen cobbling together a meal, just as the last of the daylight flickered and died. He looked over at Christine as she basted a beef roast, relieved that she had taken the news in stride that they were staying for another night.

She had bundled up again and braved the elements to inform Sorelli that they were stuck here, and cringed when she remembered her job- she would have to call tomorrow if they would be any later.

Christine had put him to work on the vegetables, and Erik hoped they could finish before the power went out, once again thanking providence for Christine's presence on this trip. He knew without a doubt that she was the Maginot Line between him and another excursion into the cuckoo's nest.

"Penny for your thoughts," Carla cooed as she stood in the doorway, wearing a sweater which showed more cleavage than good sense, her jeans painted on and shouting slutty in a loud, obnoxious voice.

"Inflation, Carla. Try a quarter," Erik muttered, and Christine bit back a grin. He nodded his head toward a stack of dishes. "Help yourself. We're all in this together."

With a glare at Christine, she grabbed the plates and marched out of the room.

"Careful, Girard. She made an entrance, and you didn't even blink. Her temper is showing along with everything but her nipples."

He snorted. "I noticed."

"What? Her temper?"

"Among other things."

"I noticed you noticing," Christine said archly.

"It is merely a knee jerk reaction. A requirement of any male still breathing to be aware of females attempting to get their attention. It means virtually nothing."

Christine waved an irreverent hand in Erik's direction. "To you maybe, but Darla is flaunting her goodies for a reason, Girard. Watch your step," she warned.

He merely grunted, glancing at her as he put the cut potatoes in a baking dish, brushed them with olive oil, and sprinkled them with dried rosemary and black pepper. "How's this?" he asked. "Did I do it right?"

She joined him at the scrubbed wooden table, one arm sneaking companionably around his narrow waist, and inspected the dish of potatoes. "Chef Boyardee couldn't have done it any better."

He turned and put both hands on her shoulders, looking down at her upturned face. "I'm sorry about this, Christine. If I'd had any inkling of being stranded here for one more night, I would have insisted you stay home. Although, you have made it much more bearable."

"Mission accomplished then," she whispered.

He leaned down to her slightly parted lips, his hands slipping around to her back, urging her closer.

"Claire wants to come down for dinner, Erik, and wants you to go up in half an hour and help her downstairs."

At Giudicelli's voice, he pulled back and Christine felt nothing but irritation.

"She's hoping you'll play after dinner and accompany me while I sing," Carla said, glancing suspiciously between the two.

That is when Christine realized the evening was only going to get worse.

* * *

"Carla always did have a fine voice, wouldn't you say, Mrs. de Chagny?"

"Huh?" Christine had been sitting there drowsily as Erik played and Giudicelli warbled, forced out of her blue funk by Claire. She turned and looked at the elderly woman. "Sorry?"

"They're good together, aren't they?" she said, gesturing with a languid hand to the couple at the piano.

Christine composed her face into something less sour. "Oh, yes. Erik is Carnegie Hall material, all right," and Claire's smile faltered a bit.

Erik was playing Memory, from Cats, and Christine managed to tune out Carla, listening only to the beautiful melody. Claire clapped vigorously when the song ended, playfully calling brava several times in a decidedly unClaire-like way, Christine forcing herself to go along.

Giudicelli, with a flush of pleasure, put a possessive hand on Erik's bony shoulder, and leaned close to him. "How about another, maestro? Something with teeth. Oh, say...The Light in the Piazza?"

Erik ignored her and swung around on the bench and looked straight at Christine. "Your turn."

 _Uh oh_.

"Sing? I don't think so. Carla's the _professional_ ," she said cattily, giving the word a whole different meaning.

"No one is professional here tonight. Pick a song. Anything you like."

"You're not going to go away, are you, Girard?"

"What for? I enjoy badgering you, de Chagny," his eyes sparking with amusement. "How about On My Own from Les Miserables?"

Oh yeah? I'm on my own, all right, she decided, looking at the stony faces of Claire and Giudicelli, as she and Erik yakked back and forth. _I'm about to get my butt burned._ He gazed back at her, calmly waiting. The two women were waiting. Either for a no from her or something they could later laugh their collective asses off about. One more pleading look at Erik, but obviously, he wasn't going to take no for an answer. She nodded and stood up, hoping she wasn't going to fall on her face.

"Can I warm up first?" she asked him as she stood near the bow of the grand.

"Certainly," and he leaned closer and whispered, "Relax. You have good flexibility and nice range. Let it rip."

And she did.

 _"_ _On_ _m_ _y_ _o_ _wn, pretending he's beside me._

 _All alone I walk with him_ _'_ _til morning._

 _Without him, I feel his arms around me._

 _And when I lose my way, I close my eyes and he has found me."_

She was encouraged by the other two women smiling less and less; that's how Christine knew she was doing a passable job; that, and the nod of satisfaction from the remarkable musician accompanying her, as her eyes strayed often to his. Her breath control was only adequate, and her pacing left a lot to be desired, but for someone who hadn't sung professionally in a long while, it wasn't half bad.

" _I love him,_

 _I love him,_

 _I love him._

 _But only on my own."_

The response from her _audience_ was tepid to say the least, but Erik looked directly at her, closing one eye in a slow wink, before flashing his mother a smile of malicious delight, both realizing that Carla's vocal range had been weighed against Christine's and found to be the lesser talent. Ignoring him, Claire requested a Mozart piece before Erik's hands had left the keys. While he played, his mother asked Christine much too nicely, to fetch her a cup of tea. Her first reaction was to tell her to stuff it, but Claire had extended her hospitality, such as it was, to an uninvited guest. She could laugh about this with Sorelli tomorrow.

She did as requested, deciding to make enough for everyone, and loaded a tray with cups, milk, sugar, and lemon for Erik. She glanced out the back door, and watched as a brisk wind swirled a fresh powdering of snow into the air, skimming it off of a steadily deepening snow drift. Erik had shoveled a path from the kitchen door to the garage, where a lawn tractor was fitted with a snow plow. The path was already covered, and by tomorrow, he would be shoveling it again, before using the tractor to plow the driveway down to the main road.

She decided that she would help him by grabbing a shovel. Cold weather and Erik didn't get along. He had come back in from shoveling earlier, pressing thumb and forefinger to his face.

"You okay?" she had asked him.

He grunted as he ceased his movements. "My sinuses act up when I'm out too long in this weather. I don't have the benefit of nasal passages to filter out the cold air, and sometimes it cuts like a knife across my cheekbones," he explained with little emotion. She could see the flash of pain in his eyes and the tightness of his mouth, and had scoured the house for sinus pills. Finding some, she presented the capsules to him with a glass of water, and was gratified by his reaction. His fingers had curled around hers, giving them a gentle squeeze, before taking the pills.

"Thank you," he had whispered.

She balanced the heavy tray, walking slowly through the drafty house until she reached the parlor, only to find Claire sitting there alone. Erik and Carla were gone.

Where is everybody?" she asked casually, setting the tray down on a small table.

"Carla said she was ready to turn in and my son was good enough to escort her upstairs. This old house can be quite dark, and if one isn't familiar with its layout, one can go the wrong way. He'll be back presently, Christine...if I may call you that?"

 _Wonder how Darla was able to trip up those stairs all by herself last night, Mrs. Matchmaker from Hell?_

She poured a cup of tea for Claire, and sat down with her own, nodding. "Why not? It's my name," softening her words with a fake smile.

She sipped at her tea, not really wanting it, and made inane conversation with Claire, waiting for Erik to come back.

And waited.

Twenty minutes later, her tea was gone along with her good mood. It was fairly obvious that he wouldn't be back anytime soon. She set her cup down and stood up. "Would you like me to help you to bed?"

"No. I'm fine here for a while. I'm sure Erik will return eventually, when he's through uh... _talking_ to Carla."

"Then I think I'll be off to bed, Mrs. Girard."

"Of course. I certainly don't blame you for wanting to turn in," barely able to keep the triumphant smile off of her face.

"Good night then."

"Christine?"

"Yes?"

"He hasn't stopped loving her. He'll eventually remember that, and when he does, where will that leave you?" It was uttered in a cool, well modulated voice, but to Christine it dripped venom.

"That's up to Erik, isn't it?" she said finally, and made her way through the dark house alone.

* * *

 **Next chapter- Donuts and Death Cookies. Karma and Khan. Bad mommy!**


	16. To Sleep, Perchance To Dream

**Will Shakespeare-** **Many thanks for allowing me the use of your work in this chapter, as well as in the chapter titles. I get nothing from it, 'cept fun. You're the best. Love ya, buddy.**

 **Not quite the kitchen sink, but gettin' there. Do your best.**

* * *

She had decided on a long soak in the tub.

Sometimes when she was feeling like the world's favorite punching bag, Christine poured a good dollop of gardenia and white tea bubble bath in the hot water, lit aromatic candles, and had a glass of Chardonnay in an attempt to improve her mood with a few creature comforts. A few? Hell. _A_ _lot_ of them.

Usually it didn't work, only serving to prune fingers and toes, although she had to admit, she always smelled good afterward. Tonight she had none of those things with which to relax, and as she slipped into the warm water, she thought glumly about what Erik, the Piano Man Girard was doing right about now with Carla, the Leetle Lizard. With a loud groan, she closed her eyes and slid down in the tub until she was completely submerged. It was lovely, quiet, and dark beneath the soothing arms of the warm water.

And naturally, that's when the power went out.

Christine sat up for a breath of air, opening her eyes to a darkness so complete, that she felt a momentary panic as she looked up and down for just a glimmer of light somewhere... _anywhere._ Blinking rapidly, her eyes staring into a blackness deep as a pit, she sucked in a large breath and wailed, "Oh my God, I'm _blind_!" before reason returned, and she decided it was nothing so drastic; the electricity had merely gone out.

"Wimp," she said in disgust, remembering the light on her phone, which just happened to be in her room, not doing her a damn bit of good. She would have to navigate the creepy hallway and feel her way down to the bedroom, hoping she chose the correct one. She could see herself wandering into the wrong room, banging off the walls, stubbing her toes, and opening the odd door or two to find skeletons in the closet.

 _Real_ ones.

"Shit!" She flailed around in the tub, reaching over the side for her towel, and groped blindly in the pitch-dark. Her hand finally latched on to it, and she stood up wrapping it around herself, shivering in the chill air as she dried off.

A slight tap on the bathroom door and a cone of yellow light appeared beneath it. "Christine? Are you all right in there?"

She stumbled in the general direction of the door and yanked it open, launching herself at him. "Oh, thank God! Thank God," almost tearful to see a startled Erik. "Just the idea of racketing around sightless in this mausoleum gave me the heebie-jeebies!"

His arms were filled with a wet, mostly naked Christine, and he could feel the damp towel slipping, his hands coming into contact with soft, chilled skin prickled with gooseflesh. Automatically, he began to briskly rub her arms, attempting to warm her up. The outcome was that he was warming up as well.

He gave a little shudder of longing and began to talk- attempting to take his mind off of sweet smelling woman, fresh from the bath, and her slight curves which fit so nicely against his spindly length.

"I was halfway up the stairs with Claire when the power went out. Luckily, there are lanterns and matches in the hall closet across from the staircase. Living out here, the power often goes out during a storm."

Christine tugged at her towel, dislodging Erik's hands from her arms, and bringing one of them into very close contact with a breast.

"Get your hand off my boob, Girard!"

"You put it there," he protested.

"One woman a night not enough for you?" Christine snapped, her earlier mood returning. She could smell him as they stood close together, and it was the cloying scent that Carla wore.

He removed his hand from that plump roundness beneath his fingers, fingers that were itching to squeeze and stroke. He had allowed his right thumb one sneaky little caress before he dropped his hands. "I am not even going to try and figure out what you meant by that, Christine," his sigh, one of resignation. "You're dripping wet and your hair is leaking all over me."

"Because I just happened to be taking a bath when the power went out," she snarled. "You know... a bath. Where you get all wet and soapy?"

"No need for the sarcasm," he muttered, as his depraved mind helpfully provided an image of her, wet and soapy.

"Oh? But you're not above using it on me! _Hoist with his own petard._ A little Shakespeare-ism for my good friend Erik Mercer Girard!" her small chin coming up in that defiant way which belonged solely to Christine.

"Well, well, well. Aren't you the clever one! A closet lover of the bard," he sniped. "I prefer... _F_ _railty, thy name is woman._ I can't help it if you decided to leave the parlor early and got caught in the dark!"

" _There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy._ Ha! Take that, Girard. I wasn't going to stay downstairs and entertain your mother while you entertained your slatty ex-girlfriend upstairs!"

" _I am a man more sinned against than sinning,"_ he rapped out. _"_ Entertain? Clue me in, if you don't mind! That is...if you can manage to make any sense while you do it."

"Uh...uh...umm _,"_ searching desperately for a quote as she fought to keep her teeth from chattering, and could only come up with... _"_ _Off with his head!"_

" _By the pricking of my thumbs. Something wicked this way comes,_ _"_ he returned, wondering if he was going crazy. Crazier. Was he standing in the middle of the bathroom floor during a power outage with a half naked Christine, lobbing Shakespeare back and forth like a tennis ball?

"Yes, and we know what the wicked something is, don't we? And right back at ya... _N_ _ow is the winter of our discontent,"_ she said in childish triumph. "All thanks to you!"

" _Come, come, wasp; i' faith, you are too angry._ I believe that is what Petruchio declared to the shrew," Erik said, his eyes alight with an odd gleam as he watched her.

He wanted to kiss her. Hard. Erase all that negativity from her face, and punish her with his mouth, until she yielded sweetly to him and kissed him back, becoming soft and pliant in his arms. That's what he wanted. Soft and pliant. Not this vindictive little woman.

 _"If I be waspish, best beware my sting,"_ she countered.

" _We have seen better days,"_ Erik told her, his tongue making an appearance as it swiped at suddenly dry lips, "but only when the shrew felt like it," he added.

The woman in question's mouth worked, her Shakespeare nearly dried up. She didn't read as much of the bard as Erik did, obviously. Hers were from those little bits and pieces of past life that seemed to cling stubbornly to the inside of her brain and once forgotten, would suddenly rise up out of nowhere and let itself be known. English Lit still took up space in her head, and what's more, she had done The Taming of the Shrew years ago in college, playing the part of Kate. She never thought any of it would ever come in handy again, but here they were, tossing Shakespeare bombs at one another...

...and loving it, if the hard shine in Erik's eyes was any indication.

 _"By this reckoning, he is more a shrew than she,"_ Christine intoned, her gaze tracking his tongue as it slid across those thin lips, and she seriously contemplated closing the short distance between them, yanking his head down by the hair and plundering that nothing mouth of his. She wanted to suck his arrogant lower lip into her mouth, and bite him 'til it bled, then soothe it with her tongue. His next words dashed her warm thoughts with cold water.

 _"That band that seems to tie their friendship together will be the very strangler of their amity."_ He took a hasty step back, before his arms played him false and reached for her, not at all certain what Christine would do, and having no wish to make matters worse between them.

Christine noted his step away from her, that wild light dying out of his eyes, and took a deep breath. She was fresh out of proper come-backs, and frustrated, only managed to stomp her bare foot in a fit of pique, whether from disappointment that she wouldn't get to nibble on his lower lip after all, or because she was wet and cold. And yet, she insisted on one more stab at a quote, and latched on to the only one she could remember. _"A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!"_

Erik's tight smile was snide, as he clicked his tongue in false sympathy. "Aw. Stuck are you, dear? Try this one. _When words fail, music speaks."_

"Stop that! I _hate_ it when you sound like me! It's just too weird." She stepped away from him and yanked the sliding towel back up over her breasts. "This is all your fault anyway! Turn around while I get dressed," she spat, a large shiver running up her back, as she wound her wet hair up in a dry towel. It was going to look like shit in the morning.

"My fault?" he questioned stiffly, as he faced away from her, swallowing hard, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing in agitation as he listened to the rustle of clothes being hastily thrown on. "You think I ran around cutting wires just so I could get you all to myself in a dark house?" He snorted loudly at that one. "You _are_ mental, de Chagny."

" _I'm_ mental? That's rich! I wasn't the one who lived in a-" Her mouth clamped shut on those last words, but he said them for her anyway.

"Psychiatric hospital. Nut house. Funny farm. Boobyhatch. There's more where those came from. I've heard them all, so you won't hurt my feelings, Christine."

She dropped her eyes from his, knowing she _had_ hurt him, and felt not only wet and cold, but stupid as well. "I didn't...t-that isn't what I meant," and stumbled onward, making no sense whatsoever. "This wouldn't be happening if...if you hadn't decided to come to this god-awful place and made me come too!"

"Made you? Just who invited herself along?" he said in a low hiss. "You practically begged me to let you come!"

"Oh, shut up, Erik!" she growled, hating it when he was always right.

"Oh, shut up, Erik, _please!_ " he admonished her, his upper lip curled as if he smelled something bad.

"This conversation is getting us nowhere! What's the matter, Girard? Darla cut you off?"

"What, in the name of all that's holy are you talking about now?"

"I'm talking about the tea I fixed for your mother, only to come back and find you and your girlfriend gone!"

"And here we go again! Is that what all this melodrama is about?" he said in patent disbelief. "Claire said she told you where I'd gone."

"Oh, yes. She told me. Gleefully."

He frowned. "Gleefully doesn't quite fit my mother, but... what's the problem?"

"Your matchmaking mommy rather loudly hinted that you were going upstairs to do the nasty."

"The what?"

"You know...seal the deal. Get some booty. Um...bump the fuzzies."

"You mean sex?"

"Isn't that what I just said?"

"I'm not sure," he muttered. "But haven't you been _listening_ to me, de Chagny? What part of _get lost, Carla,_ don't you understand?" Erik shook his head in disgust. "And they thought _I_ was irrational."

"Shut it, you! According to the Dragon Lady, it's the part where you run off and make sure the love of your life, oh yes, you heard me right!" She paused for breath. "Where was I? Oh, um... where the love of your life gets to her room safe and sound, because after all, this house is rather large and one can get lost very easily if one is not careful." Christine uttered this loftily, lifting her nose in the air and mimicking all of the snobbery aimed at her since she first walked through the front door. "The part where you can't resist what is being offered. Enter the bumping fuzzies."

"Claire," he said through his teeth.

"Claire," she agreed. "She told me in no uncertain terms that you were still in love with Carla, and that I should just. butt. out."

"And of course you believed her, after I essentially told you it was unwise to do so! Enlighten me, de Chagny, if you would... just how many working brain cells do you possess?" he sneered.

Christine swelled with rage at his mocking tone. "That's right, boy genius! Attack my intelligence. What's next on your agenda? A few blonde jokes? Still doesn't explain why you went off with her."

She wasn't surprised to see him tugging on his hair. He could rip it out for all she cared.

"I told you. She wanted me to look at her leaky pipe," wincing at his choice of words. "I did _not_ escort her upstairs to take advantage of what she was offering. I only meant to stop a problem from getting worse."

"You didn't even want my damned _feet_ touching you last night, but you fix _her_ plumbing!"

"Spare me the angst, if you please! I nearly drowned when the connectors beneath the P-Trap cut loose," his voice a low sibilance. He carded thin fingers through his hair. "I was trying to tighten it by hand. Which, by the way, didn't work very well."

"Ha! That's a good one, Girard. Gotta hand it to you. Are you telling me that Darla was dumb enough to turn the water on while you were under the sink? The LEAKY sink?"

"That's exactly what I'm telling you."

"Uh huh. Even I know a pipe wrench works much better, _maestro_."

"I'm aware of that, yes. There was always one kept beneath the cabinet, but it was missing. Which is why I ended up shutting off the valve. She'll just have to wash up somewhere else tonight."

"Did you search beneath Carla's mattress? I'm pretty sure that's where she stuck it after loosening the connection in the first place."

"Now why would she do that, Christine? What would she accomplish other than ending up with a wet floor?" he snapped in exasperation.

She gestured to his neck. "Was the pipe leaking something red, Girard?"

He put a hand up to his throat and swiped at it, his fingers coming away slightly sticky. "She tried to thank me," he mumbled.

She indicated another blob of red. "You have a lip smack near your mouth too."

"Uh...she tried to thank me several times."

"I think I just made my case, Dr. Watson. Her gratitude is rather damning."

"Well, I wouldn't let her," he added defensively.

"A little slow with that, don't you think?" and Erik had had enough of accusations. He had done nothing wrong.

"Even if I did go in there expecting something extra, how does that concern you? Just friends. Remember?"

Ouch. Right again, but she was damned if she was going to admit it. She craftily switched gears. "Is sex all you think about, Girard?"

"I'm a man...of course it's all I think about," he returned snidely. He wanted to point out that she was no slouch when it came to thinking about carnal knowledge, especially where Carla and himself were concerned, but thought better of mentioning it to her. Not in her present mood. He was surrounded by women, and they were giving him one hell of a headache. Especially Christine, believing him some kind of freakish Don Juan. How absurd.

"Haven't you noticed by now how lecherous I behave around the opposite sex?" trying for more of his, according to Christine- trademark sarcasm.

She shrugged, looking down at her wet feet and shivered. "Yeah, everyone but me," she sniffed, wiping at her equally wet nose.

Erik took a step forward, feeling very lost when it came to figuring out the mindset of this woman, but perhaps she was giving him a green light. Taming of the Shrew, indeed. "I can certainly fix that," his voice taking on a smooth purr that caused her stomach to swoop.

She shook her head, giving today up as a bad job. "Forget it. I think I'll turn in now, if you don't mind."

Red light. He put a hand out to her. Christine-"

"N-No, you're right, Erik. You're right. It's none of my business, and I was way out of line. Again," and she gave him a weak smile. "It's becoming a habit. I was supposed to be your back-up on this trip. Fine job I've managed to do."

"Oh, but you have, Christine. More than I can say," he declared quickly. He didn't want to argue with her anymore.

"Thanks. I uh... I think it's a good idea if you sleep somewhere else tonight."

He felt a keen flash of disappointment, before deciding it was best this way, and nodded. It would be difficult keeping his hands to himself if he slept beside her for another night.

Christine looked up at him, but instead of asking the million dollar question of _where_ he would sleep, she shrugged. "It's only for one more night then we're outta here." She cleared her throat, which was husky for some strange reason.

He set the lantern down on the toilet lid. "Yes. Fine. You keep this. It's full of kerosene, so you'll have enough until first light. There are more blankets in the chifforobe. You'll probably need them," his unspoken, _with no one to cuddle,_ left hanging in the rapidly cooling air. The look he gave her was curiously empty. "Good night."

She opened her mouth to tell him to stay with her, then closed it with a snap. For what reason? She had got no argument from him to sleep somewhere other than with her, so she wouldn't stop him. "Good night," Christine said wistfully, as he left her staring at the closed door.

* * *

She had punched her pillow an endless number of times before finally drifting off to sleep, when a hand was shaking her awake. Erik's hand, his whispered voice quickly following. "Come on, de Chagny! Up and at 'em. Daylight is wasting while you laze in bed."

"Whasit?" getting up on one elbow and looking blearily into glowing eyes.

"That's right. Get dressed and pack all your things. We're leaving as soon as you're ready- which had better be quick," he said cheerfully, "or you will be left behind."

"I-I thought we were snowed in," but found herself bouncing out of bed anyway, and did as he commanded. Soon she stood before him, dressed and ready to go, suitcase in hand.

The bouncing out of bed should have tipped her off. She _never_ bounced out of bed. Slithered...yes. Tumbled...yeah. Fall out of bed? Happened now and again. Bouncing eagerly? Never. But in this instance, she had, and was magically dressed in record time, Erik leading her out and down the stairs.

"What about the driveway? When did you plow it?" she asked, as he herded her through the silent house.

"I didn't."

"But there must be over a foot of snow out there by now," she protested. "How will we get through it?"

"Skis. What else?" he said patiently, as if talking to a dull witted child.

"Okayy," Christine replied, humoring him, "but what about Sorelli's car? She might want it back."

"It will be parked near the main road when we get there," he explained, his hand pressed against the small of her back as he urged her onward.

"Not fallin' for that one, Girard. You're just testing my intelligence, aren't you? Next, you'll be telling me a blonde joke and claiming it's a true story."

"A true story," Erik murmured, tapping his chin with a bony finger."True story. All right. I have one for you. A man was driving in his car with a blonde friend. He told her to stick her head out the passenger window and see if the turn signal was working, so she leaned way out, stared obediently at the little blinking light and reported back, "'yes, no, yes, no, yes...'"

Christine stared dumbly at him. "I don't get it."

"Never mind," he sighed. "Point made."

"What point?" her brow furrowed in confusion.

"Nothing, Christine."

They were finally outside, his urgency to be away from his mother and Carla at last getting through to her. He led her to the garage and fitted her with a pair of skis, and she stood patiently, eating a cream-filled donut, one hand on his bent shoulder as he buckled her into-

Cream filled donut? She looked at her companion in astonishment. "Where did the donut come from?" as she took another bite.

"How would I know?" he told her impatiently. "It's your dream."

Christine licked her fingers clean of sugar and pensively regarded his bent head. "That explains a lot," she said in relief. I was beginning to think you'd gone crazy."

"Been there, done that," he intoned, straightening up. And in the anything goes way of dreams, she noticed that his skis were already on his feet, but she hadn't seen him get into them. She merely shrugged, as she tried to channel another donut into her hand, and squeed happily when it appeared. Raspberry filled this time. He led her out into the swirling darkness of early morning and in a mere blink, they were headed for the gates, flying into the billowing wind and snow.

"Whee!" Christine laughed and shushed ahead of him, going faster and faster. She had poles in her mittened hands, using them to keep her balance. "Hey! Would you look at me! I've never done this before, and already I'm a pro!"

"Tell me that _after_ you make the turn outside the gates."

"Why?"

"Death Cookies."

"Death... _huh?_ What the fudge are those?"

"Always so eloquent, de Chagny," Erik snorted. "I thought a pro such as yourself would know about the dreaded Death Cookies," and he shook his head restively, knowing what she was about to say. "No, they are not edible. No chocolate icing with a cream center. I am talking about chunks of ice which can foul up a smooth turn, so beware that they don't give you a bad case of the speed wobbles and dump you head first into a snow bank."

"Girard...what the hell are you jabbering about this time?! How can a damned cookie put you in a snow bank? And for your information...I do not wobble!"

"Make a little more noise, while you're at it, Christine! I don't think Carla heard you."

She snorted and tossed her head. "I don't care. This is _my_ dream. Giudicelli isn't allowed," she said sullenly.

Erik jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Tell _her_ that," and sure enough, Carla was gliding toward them, skimming over a foot of snow as if it wasn't there. Worse yet, she was dressed in a body hugging one piece snow suit that left very little to a male's imagination. To Christine though, the older woman in skin tight spandex and fluffy pink hat, looked more like a demented snow bunny.

"Run for it!" she shrieked in his ear, and grabbed him by the hair, wrenching his staring eyes away from the curvy vision in white rapidly gaining on them. Soon they were skiing full out, picking up an inordinate amount of speed, and she couldn't help but glance several times over her shoulder as Carla fell further and further behind them.

"She'll never catch us," Christine giggled. "She's too top heavy," and glanced down at her own chest which had suddenly sprouted the boobs she had always wanted. "I love this dream," she sighed happily.

Her breath was a white fog in front of her, as they slid forward where the driveway went down a substantial grade, and they were soon flying at a breakneck pace.

"Whee, this is very cool!" she shouted, as they rounded a bend, heading toward a belt of trees and a very large snow bank.

"Hang on, Christine!" Erik shouted, as they hit the snow bank and became airborne. His long fingers, clasped hers, refusing to let go. Their landing was soft with a gentle phlump! as if landing on a feather mattress, Erik conveniently landing on top of her, his arms sliding around to her back. "This is nice," he whispered, nuzzling her chin. "I am enjoying myself very much in your head. Usually, I have nightmares of men in white coats chasing me down with a hypodermic in one hand and restraints of some kind in the other."

"Mm. Not in _my_ head, Girard. In here, it's all about pleasure, so shut up and kiss me before we wake up," and pulled his head down to hers, her fingers working their way through his wind tousled hair. His length was pressing her deeper into the snow; it felt so damned good to have him on top of her, so good that she angled her body to get him closer to a certain sweet spot that was clamoring for his attention.

"Let's make a snow angel, shall we?" he murmured.

"Let's just make it," she whispered back. "It's long overdue."

"Sounds good to me," and covered her face with kisses, licking at the raspberry jam on her chin, before claiming her lips, his tongue delving deeply into the warm cave of her mouth.

She couldn't get enough of him, and moaned her acceptance of his caresses as his hand slipped magically inside her clothing and stroked her bare skin.

"You little bitch! I knew you were after him all along," spat an indignant Carla, huffing and puffing- finally catching up with them.

She grabbed hold of his arm and gave it a tug. "You don't belong to her, Erik. You're only friends. Remember? You're coming back to the house with me," she demanded. "Your mother said to come home right this very minute!"

Christine could feel him obeying the other woman, as he started pulling away from her, and her arms tightened in response, feeling the cold at last seeping into her clothing. She shivered as the man in her arms began to fade away, his mouth no longer pressed so deliciously to hers.

"Well, this sucks!"

"Blows too, dearie," Carla said, eying her with distaste, "but you lose, I win! Ha Ha, I win!"

"Don't listen to her, Erik! She's nothing but a bag of wind, and besides, I'm a much better kisser," Christine pointed out.

No answer.

"Erik?

" _Erik!_ "

She woke up in the cold room, both arms hugging the pillow that smelled like him.

"In a friggin' snowbank?" she muttered, shivering. " _Really?_ "

Shit.

* * *

He opened his eyes and glanced around, feeling disoriented. It was still dark, but something had awakened him. He was just across the hall from Christine, only marginally comfortable; he hadn't made up the bed, but had thrown a blanket down on the lumpy mattress and mummy-like, rolled himself up in it. Erik stretched out with a mournful sigh. The room was dusty and smelled of mildew, and several times he had given in to a violent sneeze. It had been more than nice lying beside her the night before, and he had been looking forward to it again. He wiggled his toes. They were numb and moving sluggishly.

The sound of breaking glass from downstairs had him leaping out of bed. He stopped dead when he got a good look at the room he was in. He should know it- it had been his home for three miserably long years. The clinical furnishings- a sterile looking hospital bed with heavily laundered white sheets, one very thin beige blanket, a bedside table on wheels, and an IV stand which had loomed over his bed like a spindly metallic warden dispensing the latest drug of choice. There was a closet holding a few pairs of jeans and shirts (all black), and his well loved Davidson Scout biker boots. Along with the lingering odor of harsh disinfectants he had been privy to daily, there was the cloying sense of despair creeping back in; it had been an almost solid presence in his life, and it came hurtling back to him, easy as pie. He glided as quietly as possible to his door and opened it, stepping into the well lit institutionally bland hallway of Smith's Grove Sanitarium, smack dab in the middle of Nowhere, USA. He listened for more sounds from below stairs and was rewarded by a low growl.

Carla making a raid on the fridge?

 _Where did that come from?_ Carla had never stepped inside the institution's front doors, let alone resided there. And the idea of raiding a fridge was a homey comfort which was never allowed in the regimented atmosphere of a psychiatric institution. Besides, it was difficult for a good many of the patients to tie their own shoes, let alone make themselves a midnight snack or use the microwave.

More breaking glass and the shuffling of feet. He jumped nearly a foot when a hand landed on his shoulder. He grabbed it and twisted, pulling a soft pliant body toward him.

"Ow! Ow! That hurts, Erik! Let go!" she squealed, struggling in his arms.

"Shut it, Christine," he hissed. "They're in the house, and you'll give us away!"

"Who's in the house?"

"Why, the Walking Dead, of course."

"How the hell did you figure that one out, Girard?"

He shrugged, absolutely clueless. Where _had_ it come from? "Don't know."

"The undead, huh? You mean Nadir's down there?"

"Nadir? _He's_ one of them?"

"Yup. Don't you remember me telling you about Dread the Walking Dead, the TV series? That's why he left me."

"You're better off without him, Christine."

"Yeah, I know. I heard he has awful table manners now."

There was a loud snarl from below, and what sounded like dogs fighting over a juicy bone. Or were they fighting over Carla?

"Stay here," he told her, and took off at a loping run for the stairs.

"Wait, Erik!" and he skidded to a stop and looked back at her. "Take this with you," and handed him a large spray can.

He looked dubiously at it. "What does it do?"

"Kills zombies and..." She wrinkled her nose, trying to remember. "Oh yeah, and werewolves too. Uh, also works as a room deodorizer."

"Well, thanks...I guess," throwing a sardonic glance her way. "Listen, Christine. If I don't come back, go out the window in your room and run for the main road."

"No, I won't leave you. I just won't!" she said stubbornly, "and you can't make me," crossing her arms over her chest and staring him down. "Zombies do _not_ scare me."

"Even if I tell you that you're the main course?"

"Huh?"

"You," flicking a finger at her. "Dinner."

"What window did you say to go out of?"

"Your room. Back window. Hurry."

Erik was left standing alone in the hallway before the last words were out of his mouth. "Run, rabbit, run," he muttered to her retreating back.

He made it to the stairs and crept down them, hugging the wall, the can of spray gripped tightly in one hand.

The scene that met his eyes was shocking. Figures were hunched over and shuffling toward him, their rotting faces slack jawed and filled with an awful hunger. One zombie wearing bermuda shorts and a white polo shirt, seemed vaguely familiar, and when the undead creature raised his head and grinned whitely at him, Erik sneered.

"Back so soon, Khan?" He cocked his head at his old friend. "Christine doesn't want you anymore. Besides, she isn't here- she went out the window."

"She doesn't want you either, Erik. Take off that mask and let her see for herself. You look just like us," he intoned. The zombies looked at one another and nodded that this was so.

They started shuffling toward him and he walked slowly backward, holding the can of Zombie-B-Gone out in front of him like a shield. "Stop, or I'll shoot."

Nadir gestured with the stub of a rotted finger at the can. "That won't work on us. Only guns, clubs, and dynamite will do the job.

"Oh, and a vegan diet for certain."

"This is _my_ nightmare, Khan. If I say bug spray works, then it does," and he raised the can and aimed at Nadir like he meant business.

"You have two drop dead sexy women in here, and _this_ is what you dream about? No nookie for you, eh, Erik? Just dreading the walking dead?"

"Still have the grin of a used car salesman, I see."

"It is my best feature."

"It is your only feature," Erik scoffed.

Nadir snorted. "You should talk."

They were nearly on top of him, Khan doing a good job of keeping him off balance, when Christine ran down the stairs and shouted. "Spray him, Erik! What are you waiting for? Shoot!"

Obeying her, he depressed the nozzle and hit the first zombie with the contents, (it happened to be Nadir), and watched in satisfaction as Khan melted into a gooey puddle. "I thought you left, Christine," as he sprayed two more of the undead.

She shrugged. "I did. I was halfway down the driveway, when I realized I couldn't leave without you. Aren't you glad I came back?"

"You bet," and he blasted the last of the zombies, before turning to her. "Give me a kiss," he demanded.

"Gladly," and jumped for Erik's neck, pulling his head down to hers. His kiss was fierce, as she pressed herself against him. He groaned, sliding his hands down to her sweet bum and pulling her tightly against his hardening flesh.

This dream was looking better and better, as their tongues caressed and pushed against each other. He moaned again as she wrapped one shapely leg around his skinny hip.

The slide of a foot being dragged across the floor, caused him to raise his head, only to see another zombie making its slow halting way toward them. Honestly...how dangerous could they be if a five year old child could outrun them on any given day?

His eyes widened as he watched Carla shambling toward them, her mouth hanging open in an insane parody of a grin.

She growled, the sound raising the short hairs on his neck.

"How did she become one of the undead?"

"Well, you know when I went out the back window?" her accusing eyes narrowing as she regarded him. "You never told me I would need something to break my fall. Luckily... Carla did."

"My smart girl," Erik said admiringly. "I would like another kiss before we retire for the night- in the same bed."

"No place I'd rather be," she whispered, pulling him close again.

"Hold it right there," Carla spoke up, red eyes flashing as she surveyed the couple in each other's arms. "You're one of us, Erik. Take off that mask and join us. Join _me._ "

"What does she mean?" Christine looked up at him in growing dismay. "Does this have anything to do with her plumbing?"

He shook his head wearily. The leaky pipe again. His karma was definitely leaking out from his subconscious, or why would he dream such a thing? He reached his hand up to his face, slipping a long finger behind the mask. "She means that I _look_ like one of them. My mother once called me her corpse boy," he said sadly. "Does it matter to you, Christine?"

"Nah," she replied airily. "We're only friends, so why would it?" She spied a familiar face who had miraculously recovered from the puddle he had melted into. "Hey, Nadir! How was Florida?"

"Lonely without _you_ , Christine. "Did you miss me?"

"Are you kidding?" She jerked a thumb at Erik standing beside her. _This_ is what's been living with us since you left."

"Take me back?" a now handsome Khan asked hopefully, and glanced with pity one last time at Erik. "A little Shakespeare to leave you with, my friend, for it is all you will ever have. _He is a dreamer; let us leave him: pass."_

Christine sighed. "You betcha," joining a grinning Nadir. Erik was alone once more. Always alone.

"Wait, Christine! He dumped you, remember? He'll do it again, just wait and see."

You're still ugly, Girard. Your make-up doesn't come off, and you know I like handsome, well muscled men. Not skinny nose-less dudes like you." She took Nadir's arm and fluttered her fingers in goodbye.

"I'm still here, Erik," Carla said in a low breathy whisper. Help me get back on the big stage and I'll stay with you." She put a finger to her shriveled lip. "Well, for a while anyway. You'll probably end up back in the cuckoo's nest before too long, and I'll be free again, but in the meantime, come away with me!"

"Not on your life! You look too much like me." He turned around in a panic.

"Christine?

" _Christine!_ "

He woke in a cold sweat, his head pivoting in the dark room, searching for her.

A dream. And a really weird one at that. Erik slumped over in the pre-dawn darkness, and put his head in his hands, sighing, " _My troublous dreams this night doth make me sad._

"Shit."

He grunted, chuckling tiredly.

"She's finally rubbing off on me."

* * *

Christine finished dressing and went downstairs in search of coffee.

The power had come back on at four-thirty that morning, and she had stayed awake long enough to get out of bed and look outside. All was gray and silent, fresh snow blanketing just about everything in sight, but at least it had finally stopped. She had gone back to bed to await daylight, and after a short inner debate, tugged Erik's pillow toward her, hugging it to her chest as she slid back into sleep.

She entered the kitchen just as pale lemon light seeped through the window blinds, and eyed Erik leaning against the sink nursing a mug of coffee. "Good morning," she greeted him quietly, pouring herself a cup.

"Good morning," he replied just as succinctly, relieved to see her looking at him minus last night's antagonism.

Christine regarded him over the rim of her mug as she took a sip. "Sorry for being such a bitch last night."

"Forget it. I already have," he said softly. "I must congratulate you, though, de Chagny. You're not too shabby when it comes to Shakespeare."

"Eh. You ain't seen nothin' yet, maestro. Wait'll the next face-off," she boasted, and tipped her coffee mug toward his. "As my dad used to say... skol."

Erik held his own coffee up, returning the compliment. "Skol. Are you ready to go home? Once I clear the drive, I'll say my farewells to Claire and we can be on our way."

Her smile was warm, and seeing it, he was content. "That's great. And to get done quicker, I'll shovel the walks and the area out to the gates. That way you can keep going and concentrate on the main driveway."

He shook his head. "It's too much for you. Stay in where it's warm."

"And let you have all the fun? Nope. You and me, guy."

"You are the most stubborn woman I have ever met."

She looked at him curiously. "Ever go skiing?"

"I tried it once, but it didn't agree with me. I got a headache from the cold air. Why do you ask?" He turned and rinsed out his coffee mug.

Christine shrugged. "No reason. Just a silly dream I had."

Which reminded him of his dream about zombies- Nadir in particular. "If Khan were to show up someday and ask you to take him back- would you?"

"Take him back?" puzzled as to why Erik would mention him now, here of all places. "Are you kidding me? I don't know why I wasted a single tear on him. Why?"

"No reason," and he quickly changed the subject, trying to ignore the flash of warmth in his chest. He was preparing to leave, when Christine set her cup down and yanked a knitted green scarf from the wall peg near the door.

"Wait. You forgot something," and approached him, standing close as she stood on her toes and looped the scarf around his neck. She held onto both ends and smiled up at him. "It'll help block some of the cold wind from your sinuses," her voice soft as she wrapped it around his masked face and tied it loosely behind him.

He could only nod, his hand closing over hers. "Be very careful. You might spoil me."

"Maybe it's long overdue," her hands curling around his coat collar and tugging it up around his neck.

His own hands had settled at her waist. "About last night. Nothing happened with Carla."

"I know that. It was my own stupidity."

 _And jealousy, Christine. Let's be honest here for once._

 _No._

 _Nope._

 _Not jealousy._

Erik's hands had dropped to his sides as she stepped away from him. "Let's get done so we can get on the road soon as possible. Min and Sorelli must be having kittens by now," Christine said lightly.

"I hear and obey, madam," his voice deep as a well and smooth as cream.

He left her there, going to the garage, and soon she heard the roar of the large tractor being fired up. They worked quickly after that, Christine shoveling snow to the distant hum of the snow plow as Erik attacked the driveway down to the main road. She grit her teeth after awhile, the snow getting heavier as her arms and shoulders began to burn and ache. She walked in the tracks left by the tractor, shoveling as she went, until with a sigh of relief, she reached the gates and could turn around and head back to the house.

"Carla really is a slug," she muttered, as she entered the empty kitchen, the prima donna no doubt still tucked up in her warm bed. Hungry after her labors, she scrambled some eggs and made toast. Against her better judgment, she fixed a tray and took it upstairs, tapping on Claire's door, and when she was bid, entered to find the older woman dressed and standing by the window, apparently watching Erik as he tackled the driveway.

"I brought you some breakfast, Mrs. Girard," Christine said, as she attempted a weak smile, when she would have been just as happy giving her the middle finger salute.

"What do you see in my son?" Claire asked, not bothering to turn around.

Christine set the tray down on the foot stool and straightened up, as always, put off by the other woman's abrupt, condescending manner.

 _Here goes nothing._

"Apparently a lot more than you do," she said quietly.

"You don't know me and yet you judge me as though you do."

"I could say the same about you."

"Do you fancy yourself in love with Erik?"

"That's really none of your business," Christine warily responded, regretting her trip to this room.

"So there is a good chance that you do, if you won't answer the question."

"He's my friend and I care for him, yes." Goaded into it, she decided to toss out one of her own truisms. "Erik carries a lot of baggage, Mrs. Girard, and I think a goodbitofitbelongstoyou," the sentence spilling from her at nanno speed.

The reaction she had expected from the woman was far off the mark.

"Erik doted on his younger sister. Did he ever tell you that?"

"No."

Claire finally turned and looked at Christine with the first real sign of emotion since they had arrived here. It wasn't pleasant. "In some ways he also hated her. Which is why I blame him for her death. But he is the last of my line, and as the saying goes...beggars cannot be choosers. He has already taken the first step and come back to his home."

Christine put this nugget of info aside for the time being. Erik might be many things, but a killer? "He's not staying, Mrs. Girard. He has a life in the city, or have you forgotten that?"

Claire ignored the younger woman as though she'd never spoken. "He will eventually see reason and return to his piano and the stage as before, marry Carla and produce an heir."

"My, but you have his future all mapped out for him, don't you?" Christine returned sweetly, her claustrophobia from the weather and the company, edging her anger onward and upward. "Isn't he a little old to micromanage? Were you...I don't know... planning on giving him advice as to the best position to get that heir? The benefits of missionary as opposed to doggie style?"

She started backing to the door, knowing with that comment, she had worn out her welcome. Hell, the mat was at this moment being yanked out from beneath her feet. If looks could kill...yadda, yadda, yadda, but she _would_ get her point across before she was pitched head first into the snow. "Are you going to be a standard fixture in the bedroom until it's accomplished? No... that would only make them self-conscious." Christine tilted her head in thought. "Well, Erik anyway. Carla would probably enjoy a little voyeurism. I know! Maybe you could sit in a corner with a lampshade over your head! Less noticeable that way."

Claire eyed her coldly, her mouth puckered as if tasting something bitter, and not bothering to hide her deep aversion. "You are a coarse young woman without a modicum of taste or breeding, but I can see that you are also one for plain speaking. Very well. I suggest you find another man to latch onto and milk for whatever you can get. Someone else's coattails to ride."

 _Ouch! That hurt._ "I have no plans to ride anywhere with him, Claire... if I may call you that? ... except for the ride back home, which thankfully is today. His coattails must be awfully crowded with you and Darla already hanging there."

"Carla was right. You _are_ trash." She stared at Christine with an obvious distaste, she took no pains to hide. "Well? Shouldn't you be packing? You are no longer welcome here."

"I never was."

Christine hid her shaking hands behind her back, striving to keep the wobble out of her voice. She stepped a little closer and said in a low, urgent voice, "Erik is a fine man, Mrs. Girard. Did you ever think to tell him that?"

"How very little you know, in spite of the fact that you think you do," Claire said tersely, before turning back to the window. "See yourself out."

She stared at the older woman's rigid back, her extreme dislike of Erik's mother, taking a backseat to her impatience in getting out of there.

"Yeah, it was sure nice meeting you too," Christine said, closing the door with a satisfying slam.

* * *

 **Next Up- An accident and its aftermath.**


	17. The Evil That Men Do, Lives After Them

**Although Motley Fool is labeled romance/humor, this chapter will have very little of that. It deals with tragedy and Erik's reaction to it.**

 **It's also another long one.**

* * *

Christine drove the first hour of the trip home. Traffic was still fairly light due to the recent storm, but the roads were more than passable, and they were making good time.

It was a world of stark color, the bare bones of trees and telephone poles marching alongside the road, were limned against the clean and brilliant white of the snow. The sun glanced off thousands of ice diamonds, the accompanying glimmer and sparkle making her eyes water and sending a jab of pain straight to her eyes. She narrowed them in response, fishing in her bag for sunglasses and put them on, relieved when the glare dimmed to manageable.

She spared a glance over at her companion, slouched uncomfortably in the passenger seat and staring out the window. He had spent a few minutes with his mother before they left, and his present somber mood was no doubt a reflection of that. "Quarter for your thoughts," and managed to pry a faint smile out of him.

"Trust me, you wouldn't want them," Erik replied morosely.

"Are you okay?"

"Why? Do I look suicidal?"

She shook her head. "Is it all right if I worry about my friend?"

This surprised him. He turned then and warily met her eyes. "You do?"

"Well, why wouldn't I?" Christine answered indignantly, very sure that she was the only one who did.

"You are a rare woman, indeed. Allow me a moment to bask in the knowledge that Christine worries about Erik," and promptly clammed up again.

She spared him another glance after a few minutes. "Time's up, Girard. You only get four minutes for basking. So. Want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly."

She sighed in exasperation. "Look, I don't expect a stand-up routine...just a little conversation to pass the time. You never had a problem talking my arm off before!"

He looked over at her, the bleakness of his eyes lifting a bit. "You are a bully, de Chagny."

She grinned in response. "Take that back or I'll bust your chops."

They lapsed back into silence and Christine decided to let him stew in private. She couldn't really blame him. His mother gave her indigestion; Claire could probably annoy Erik into an ulcer, and _he_ was related to her by blood. How much worse was that?

The miles sped by, the only sounds that of the Ford's engine and the whir of their tires, and Christine was thinking idly of stopping somewhere for a coffee, when the heavy silence was finally broken.

"My mother reminded me this morning that I owe her a son's duty."

Christine snorted. "Then maybe she should first try to earn it."

Erik said nothing as the fingers of his left hand drummed relentlessly on the car's console.

"Hey," she said softly. "Lighten up a little. We're headed _away_ from her now, so relax."

He resumed staring out the window, the silence regaining a foothold. To combat it, Christine turned on the radio and tuned it to a classical station, giving a little sigh of appreciation when the magnificent tenor of a young Jose Carreras filled the small car.

She glanced over at her friend. "It's a beautiful aria. Turandot is one of my favorites." He said nothing and she faced the road again, consigning his mother to a location far beneath the earth; to a place that was said to be devilishly hot.

"Claire blames me for my sister's death," the words dropping into their midst with the force of a shout. Nessun dorma faded into the background.

Christine took her eyes off of the road for a second and regarded her friend. "I don't believe it," she answered, frowning. "Not you."

He shook his head and ran spidery fingers through his black hair, before pushing it straight back. "I didn't hold a gun to her head, or push her off a cliff, but the results were just the same."

She reached over and turned off the radio. "Okay. So _help_ me understand then," frustration bleeding into her tone.

He sat quietly, and the minutes spun further and further into a weighty silence before he decided.

And then, there was no stopping him.

"I was ten years old when Jeannette was born. She was a squalling, demanding piece of humanity, wrinkled and red-faced with very little hair, but what she had was soft as silk. She had a set of lungs that could rival the most strident diva's, and a ready smile with a place in her heart just for me." His eyes darted up to Christine and away. "She never made me feel different, you see...I was merely her big brother."

"Your mother thinks you also h-hated her."

He said nothing for a moment, then in a voice so low, she had to strain to hear him. "There were times, perhaps, when my envy rivaled a feeling of... for wont of a better word, hatred. You must understand...everything was easy for her. Her looks and charm paved the way for Jeannette, whereas I merely collected the odd look or two.

"But I did love her."

"Sure you did, babe. I don't doubt that at all, but you're selling yourself way too short," Christine protested. "People, myself included, think you're smart and super talented. Not to mention, you have a pretty decent amount of charm yourself, you know." _Didn't get any of that from your bitch of a mother though._

The endearment sat heavy between them like the notorious elephant in the room, having slipped out of her mouth with no thought whatsoever to uttering it. Christine, however, couldn't and wouldn't take it back.

Erik shelved it away in the back of his mind and would pull it out later to marvel at. Whether she meant it or not, he was someone's babe, if only for a moment, and felt marginally better as he continued down this slippery slope to the past.

"When I turned thirty-one, I bought a motorcycle. The Shadow Phantom, to be more precise. It was my feeble attempt to put some enjoyment into my life." He rolled an eye in her direction. "Don't get me wrong...music is integral to my well-being. Erik's life has always included music. Opera, jazz, rock... show tunes. All are welcome, but I was wearing down my reserves writing music, doing endorsements, plus mornings working in the recording studio. The rest of my time was spent practicing."

He became tight-lipped again, the urge to tell her everything growing stronger, while his natural inclination to suffer in silence, kept pushing it back.

Christine fought her own surge of frustration, knowing he wouldn't be bullied into talking. "Tell me about your bike," she encouraged.

He sighed and stuck his lower lip between his teeth for a moment before replying. "It was matte black and chrome...a true shadow, I suppose. It had 745 cc's of liquid-cooled 52 V-twin engine... um...44.9 horsepower at 5,500 rpms, and I installed straight pipes on it to raise the sound of its voice. Unlike yours truly," his eyes traveling down his length, uncomfortably jackknifed in the passenger seat, "it was sleek, dark, and handsome, waiting to transport me to wherever I wanted to escape."

He snorted and crossed his arms over his chest. "Most men rebel in their teens. I covered that base successfully, having been labeled a troublemaker back then, but after that, I worked quietly for years, allowing music to virtually take over my life. My attempt at a little fun was long overdue. I needed to wrestle some freedom from the performance grind, but it was a bone of contention between Claire and me. The bike was just what I needed.

"My mother hated it..."

* * *

 **Five years previously**

"Erik!"

He paused on the stairs and turned as his sister stepped lightly down to him and grabbed his arm. "Where you off to this early? Did you lose Carla again?"

"I have a feeling she's not even in the same state as me," he replied dismally.

"Go get her and drag her back," Jeannette said, huffing a laugh.

"Not unless you can picture her on the back of my bike."

"Nope. Can't do."

He shrugged and said wistfully, "Neither can I," and slung his jacket over his shoulder.

"What about me?"

"What about you?"

"Take me. You've owed me a ride for months, but somehow you always manage to wriggle out of it."

Erik deftly changed the subject, which rarely worked with his sister. "Hey! Got another joke for you. What do you call a beautiful woman on a trombonist's arm?"

Jeannette decided to humor him. "Okay, I'll bite. What do you call a beautiful woman on a trombonist's arm?"

"A tattoo," he said, sniggering.

She shook her head in loving amusement at her brother and his stupid jokes. "You're not supposed to crack up. _I_ am," she scolded.

"What do you call Bach?"

"Erik..."

"Come on. I've been saving these up for you. What do you call Bach?" he persisted.

"Dunno. What do you call Bach?" she replied in resignation.

"Dead," he said grinning.

She had to laugh. Erik was always funnier than the joke itself. But then, that's what she got for hanging on his every word all these years. "Now that you've attempted to change the subject, answer the question."

"What question?" he asked innocently.

"You are so annoying! Take me for a ride on the big bad bike and I'll be in your debt forever. You said the last time you were here we'd go for a spin and we didn't, so pay up now, you welcher!"

"Your mother would remove a layer of skin from my back if I did."

"She doesn't have to know."

"No," he replied firmly.

His sister tried the look which normally succeeded every time- a widening of her whiskey colored eyes, and a lower lip pooched out in girlish appeal. It was a ploy that had worked on her brother since he was a ten year old boy gazing on the tiny being swaddled in pink, staring unfocused at him as she lay in her father's arms.

And he recognized the look well. She had practiced it on him from the moment Erik decided that he would protect her from all hurt.

"What did you come home for if you weren't going to spend some time with me?" she accused him, her mouth turning mulish.

"The music I'm working on sounds more like a dirge than easy listening."

Jeannette snorted. " _You?_ Easy listening? Give me a break! Dirge is way closer to your style than anything light and soothing!"

"I am aiming for an adult contemporary sound this time...something lusher and more polished, but it's hard to focus at the moment. I am tired of it, and tired of the studio. I needed a break," and chucked her under the chin. "That do for a reason?"

"Of course you're fed up with that grind! How many times have I told you? Rock suits your style way better."

"So I can prance around onstage in skin tight jeans like a scarecrow on acid? No thank you!"

Jeannette squealed a laugh. "Scarecrow, my ass! No one, and I mean _no one_...has the moves like you do, and you damned well know it, so cut the shit!"

"All this for some of my time? Poor girl," he said in amusement. "I intend to spend an afternoon with you, wench, but I haven't seen Carla in nearly a month."

"Oh, right, right. I forgot. She's visiting Davina this weekend," and gave him a knowing smile. "Now it makes sense why you decided to come home!"

"I'm hoping to get in some quality time with her, yes," he said defensively.

"Uh oh. Someone needs to get laid," she responded with an eye roll.

"Quit trying so hard to be cool, Boo. You are over-reaching."

"You haven't called me that in ages!" fighting hard to suppress a smile. She lost.

"You haven't jumped out at me from behind a chair lately either," he retorted.

"Not for at least ten years anyway," she chuckled. "Now be a good brother and take me for a ride on that awesome bike!"

"I'll tell you what. I will think about it. Meantime, you and I can have lunch tomorrow and get caught up then. I want to hear about school. Still excited about graphic design?"

"Well, I should be after two years, shouldn't I?" her voice haughty. "Eventually I'd like to get into the entertainment industry. Film making maybe. I like the idea of working with production design or, and you'll like this, brother... cover art for musicians. Want to hire your little sis? So, yeah." She grinned at his obvious need to be on his way, as he shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. "Okay, okay, I have just one more thing-"

"Of course you do," he sighed.

"Has Mother told you that I'm on the Dean's List this term?"

"Only six times. Congratulations."

"She said you never made anyone's list except for the do not call variety."

Erik frowned at her. "Don't do that, Jeannette. You sound just like her."

She squeezed his arm. "Oh, stop it! I'm only having fun with you, dope. Besides, I might be your neighbor one of these days," and paused for the drama of it. "I want to transfer to the art school in the city and find a place close to Na... um...close to my big brother."

He took in his sister's stylishly shredded jeans, sporting rips and tears that no doubt cost her seventy-five dollars a pop to own, her slender legs tucked into a scuffed pair of Frye boots. Her dark brown hair, the color of polished buckeye, fell straight and shining to a white off the shoulder tee shirt, her pretty face holding a minimum of make-up, having no need for such artifice. To Erik, she looked very young and innocent.

And thought what he always did when he took a closer look at her.

How could they share the same blood and be so very different? What evil genie had given him the face of a monster, and his sibling its polar opposite?

"Are you still seeing Nadir?" he asked her abruptly, working to keep any sharpness out of his tone. Give Jeannette a reason, and she would dig in her heels just for spite. It was the only thing he and his mother agreed on...Nadir Khan was not a good choice for his sister.

She snorted. " _Now_ you want to talk?" as they paused at the foot of the stairs. "Thought you were in a hurry to throw Giudicelli over the handlebars and take off like a bat out of hell."

"I intend to, but for now, humor me. Are you still seeing him?"

"Maybe," and eying his no nonsense mouth, hurried on, "but even if I was, it's _my_ business. Geez, Erik! I get enough of this from Mother. I'm of age, in case you've forgotten, so give me a little credit to know what I'm doing!"

He scrubbed a hand through his short hair and gave her a slightly sheepish look. "You're right, of course. You _are_ an adult and able to make your own decisions, but Khan was sneaking girls behind the bandstand in the park while you were still filling your diapers. A good time remains his top priority. Don't expect him to settle down anytime soon," he warned.

"How you exaggerate! I was _not_ in diapers when he began dating- he's the same age as you, for shit's sake!"

"Erik glanced at his watch. "Look... I have to call Carla before she decides to take off for the weekend."

"Erik?"

"What?" pausing impatiently.

"You can do better."

"Better?"

"Carla."

"Tell you what. Come see me _after_ you get fitted for glasses. Then we can discuss a suitable lady for Erik."

"I heard she's flying high with the new solo part you wrangled for her."

"She got it on her own, so quit looking at me like that," he mumbled, dropping his eyes.

Jeannette snorted her disbelief. "On her own? I highly doubt that," she said dryly.

"Doesn't matter if you believe me or not," he answered gruffly.

"She's using you."

"What the hell do you think I'm doing with _her_? But I'll make you a bargain. You give up your ball and chain and I'll give up mine."

"My ball and chain isn't relieving me of my money as fast as I make it, Erik."

He shrugged. "Your mother helps herself. Why shouldn't Carla? How about you? Need some spare cash?" He spread his arms out. "Consider me your personal ATM."

"You're a dunce, you know that?" She reached up and kissed his masked cheek. "I have enough from waiting tables, but hey, I'll keep it in mind if I need any extra." She waggled her fingers at him. "Later, Erk," using her childhood name for him.

He didn't see her again until late that afternoon. By then, a restless mood had settled over him, and in response to it, he had gladly thrown off the mantle of responsibility. The pact he'd made with himself to always look out for his little sister became null and void, leading him to a decision which would cost him his sanity and change his life forever.

He was approaching a crossroads where the sign post pointed straight down.

* * *

"A word, Erik, before you go tearing out of here on that idiotic contraption you call transportation."

Claire looked cool and elegant in a pair of white slacks and a sleeveless blue blouse on that late summer afternoon. She was taking cuttings from the border of fragrant red tea roses which lined both sides of the kitchen door and ran along one side of the flagstone sidewalk. The one that led to the garage. He was quite sure she was there to waylay him for a reason.

And he was right.

"I do not want Jeannette on that machine of yours. If you decide to splatter yourself all over the road, well... that is your business, but she is to stay off of it."

"Couldn't you sound a little less happy about my demise?"

"You are merely being melodramatic now, Erik," she said wryly.

"Truth hurt, Mother?"

"Stop being ridiculous! I'm merely warning you that she is not to ride anywhere with you."

"You were listening this morning," he stated mildly.

"Every word."

"She's not a child. Although you would like nothing better than to keep her one."

"I don't want her moving into the city either, so do not persuade her to do otherwise. That Muslim friend of yours is constantly sniffing around her and I won't have it. He's not our kind."

" _No one_ is your kind, Claire, but since you were eavesdropping, then I'm sure you recall the fact that Jeannette broached the subject to me...not the other way around."

"And you will only agree with her, no doubt pointing out the advantages of being out from under the influence of her mother.

"Just as you did," she said coldly.

"Of course I did. It is called self-defense."

"Such drama from you! You act like success is detrimental to your health."

"Your brand, certainly. You would run talent into the ground by insisting I take every performance and recording contract offered."

"It's called opportunity, Erik. Something you're willing to squander when things become too intense for you."

"I suggest then that you get yourself a gig or two and go on the circuit. He smiled without humor. "I would be interested to see how you manage to stay on your feet by the end of one month. Quite different than merely cashing the checks and buying $4,000.00 worth of Koi."

Her hand swung out, and his rose to stop it just inches from his masked cheek. She wrenched out of his hold. "You are an unnatural child," she seethed. "You always have been, and I regret it more than I can say! You and your sister have always been diametrically opposed, and I have never understood it! Neither did your father, God rest his soul."

He said nothing to that, having heard it all before. The only sign of emotion was a muscle twitching furiously in his jaw. "If my sister decides to cut the apron strings and live in the city, I will do all in my power to help her."

"You will do anything to make me suffer, won't you, Erik?" her voice full of self-pity. "You've always hated me."

He turned to go, wondering why he had even bothered coming back here for the weekend. "On the contrary...

"You have always hated _me_."

* * *

"Fuck, Girard. Get off the goddamned phone! You wanted to ride, so let's fuckin' do it!"

Erik held up a hand for silence. "I know you don't, Carla. I know," he murmured, placating her. "It's just that...well... I've been busy with the new music. I-I miss you." As usual, saying it made him feel needy and helpless.

He didn't like feeling needy and helpless.

"Holy shit, Girard! You can fuck her later, dude," Jeffrey Munn said, vastly amused by the other man's need to get some tail.

Erik's stare was coldly unblinking as he regarded Munn. "You talk too much. Want to ride? Then get the hell out of here and go do it." He turned back to his phone. "Look...I could drive up if you want me to. Just... just say you want me to," despising the pleading note which had crept into his voice. He often felt like a pet dog around her, whining and begging for a moment of her time. It was beginning to get old.

"Carla? Hey, Carla?" He swore and thrust the phone into his jacket pocket. Grim mouthed, he reached out one long arm and hooked it around the other man's neck, yanking him close. "She was tired of listening to you, Munn, and what do you know? She hung up on me." He regretfully shook his head. "That's not good. Not good at all. So tell me. What am I to do with you?"

The arm cruelly tightened, and Jeffrey felt a thrum of fear. He struggled against the taller man, getting nowhere fast. "Let go, asshole!" he choked. "Khan! For God's sake!" The pressure was tightening on his windpipe. " _Khan!_ "

"Let go of my ride, Erik, or you'll have me on the back of your bike clinging to you like a lover. You don't want that, do you?"

He sullenly eyed an amused Nadir Khan. "Are you so bereft of friends that you must turn up here with _this_?"

Nadir shrugged negligently. "He had nowhere else to go and offered me a ride. I would look silly trying to keep up with you in my Chevy Cobalt. Really, don't you think-"

"Don't listen to him, Nadir. He's just feeling a little glum now that he's not getting any this weekend."

Jeannette had come out the back door, a warm jacket dangling from one hand. She indicated the man struggling to get loose. "You might want to let him breathe, Erik, He's turning purple. Well, brother? Room for one more? Mother will never know. She's at her bridge club."

Erik sighed, easing up on Munn's neck. The man staggered away from him, rubbing his sore throat. He bent over, placing both hands on his thighs and wheezed painfully. "Fuck it. I'm leavin', Khan," he rasped, as Nadir ambled up beside him. "That sonofabitch nearly choked me to death!"

"You are not going anywhere. You promised me a ride, remember? Aside from foul mouths, my friend hates those who renege on their word." He glanced casually at him. "Don't you, Erik?"

"Oh, by all means. For them, I reserve the Punjab lasso," he answered, his tone friendly and mild. "A dainty little garrote I picked up in Paris years ago from an old Sikh who lived there. Just a souvenir, mind you, but I was told it is a highly effective tool for ending one's miserable life. Literally pops the eyes out of its victims as they strangle to death."

Jeffrey cut his eyes to the gaunt figure looming nearby, his amiable tone all the more chilling after nearly throttling him. He was very sure that Girard was two cards shy of a full deck, and one scary dude to boot. He turned to Nadir with frightened resignation and said hoarsely. "Hop on then."

Erik turned to his sister and sighed wearily. "How did you know about Carla?"

"Davina. She said her daughter and some others were at that resort in the Catskills until Sunday evening. Aren't you lucky?" she uttered softly.

"That's not exactly how I would state it," he growled.

"Well then...let me modify that a little. Aren't _I_ lucky? I get my big brother all to myself."

Khan loudly cleared his throat. "What about me? Do I count?"

Her look was one of adoration sweetened with a slow, knowing smile. In that single moment, it was perfectly clear to Erik that his sister and Nadir were sleeping together. He would have to have a long _friendly_ talk with Khan and set some ground rules for the treatment of Jeannette. But the thought of his mother and her absolute certainty that she could keep the young woman away from Nadir Khan _and_ out of the city, gave him a tiny moment of savage glee at her coming disappointment.

"Come on, Erik! Where's the harm?" Jeannette's lower lip was pushed out in stubborn willfulness.

His head tilted, he regarded his sister with narrowed eyes. Why not go for the triumvirate of no no's?

He watched her glance longingly between Nadir and Erik's bike, it's paint a somber black...it's form, sleek and oddly dangerous looking.

"All right. You win," he muttered, tugging on tight leather gloves.

"You mean it?"

"I said it, didn't I?"

Jeannette felt a moment's unease as she saw herself perched behind her brother, clinging like a burdock as they flew down the road, holding onto Erik's thin waist. Her smile was slightly sick as she contemplated nothing between her and the pavement racing by beneath their tires.

"Still want that ride, Boo?" noting her pale cheeks. "We could give it a go some other time," and added smoothly, "I could ride you down to the gates and back. Slowly...very slowly. Same as giving a ride to a five year old, and as safe as the chair in your living room." Erik felt a moment's regret for egging her on, not at all sure why that maddening little imp inside his head insisted that he did.

Was his sister just a convenient pawn to get back at Claire?

He really didn't want to know the answer to that.

"Five year old, huh?" Jeannette was saying indignantly. "Hell, no. You're taking me down to Zak's for a beer! It'll be easy-peasy lemon-squeezy!" snapping her fingers. She leaned closer and tapped his bony chin. "To you music geeks, that means supremely simple." She shook off her misgivings, her momentary anxiety forgotten at this chance to rush into the wind and meet it head-on. " _If_ you can guarantee no bugs in my teeth," she laughed.

He shook his head "No can do, but you get to wear this nifty matching helmet," he replied, as he slipped it over her head and buckled it securely under her chin.

"Where's yours?"

"I like to live dangerously," he intoned, his voice deepening to funereal. When she made to remove hers, his mouth thinned in displeasure. "No helmet, no ride. Them's the rules, Jeannette."

"Okay, okay. I dig it," she muttered, "just lose the _my way or the highway_ attitude, brother."

Erik put a hand to his ear and leaned down. "What? I'm afraid I didn't quite catch that."

"You heard me perfectly well, you brute!" she replied laughing.

A sullen Jeffrey Munn kick started his bike, and the roar of the exhaust cut through the quiet of early evening.

"Cool," Jeannette exclaimed. "You're next, Erk. Give it some vroom!"

"All right. Here we go," and he straddled the bike, raising a booted foot to kick start the engine, but with a graceful flourish of one hand, he pushed the electric start near the throttle, and the motor smoothly caught. He revved the engine several times, just for the hell of it.

"What a cop out! You'll never get into Hells Angels that way!" she yelled over the noise of Munn's full-throated Harley.

"Why wear out my leg?" he said, amused, raising his own voice. "Hang on, Boo. We'll go down to Zak's and have us that beer. Sound good?" She nodded against his back and he felt slightly appeased after Carla's rebuff. Maybe he would make the trip up to Hunter's Mt. anyway and surprise her.

Jeannette hugged his waist tightly and rested her cheek against the cool leather of his jacket. "I don't know what changed your mind, but this is great!" She shifted around to give Nadir a slow wink. ' _You and me. Later,'_ she mouthed to him.

Khan gave her a slight nod in reply. They would be wrapped naked around each other later that night, and one day soon, she would be joining him in the city. Then he would have her all to himself.

Erik shifted into first gear and applied throttle as they rolled down the driveway, the Phantom's straight pipes voicing a steady rumble, the smell of engine exhaust, permeating the mild evening air. Jeannette clutched her brother tightly, excited and nervous when he opened the bike up as they hit the main road, the rumble quickly becoming a dull roar.

His sister had a death grip around his waist, and he smiled. Yet, he wondered himself why he had changed his mind. His mother had made it very clear that he was to stay out of any decisions concerning Jeannette, and for the most part, he would have done just that. But his sense of outrage at his mother's continuing need to manage their lives to suit her own purposes, led him in another direction. What could possibly go wrong with two siblings sharing a ride and a couple of beers?

He was soon to find out.

* * *

They had just passed through the small burg of Windsor Locks, and Zak's Roadhouse was just beyond the intersection on the right. Getting the green light, Erik cruised right through it. Munn, with Nadir clinging like a monkey to the back of the Harley, had already made it through the intersection.

The car came out of nowhere, filling his sight. Becoming the entire world.

Speeding through the red light, it was on a direct collision course with them. Erik's lips peeled back from his teeth as it approached, realizing that impact was inevitable. The car was moving too fast and they had nowhere to go- no time to even hit the brakes.

"Hang..." he attempted to yell to his sister, when the left front bumper clipped their rear wheel and sent them into a violent spin.

His thoughts coalesced as he was thrown savagely from the bike. If only they had left the house a few minutes earlier. If only he had told his sister to hang out with her friends instead of pestering him for a ride.

If only.

She had no damn business expecting him to...

 _Oh, baby._

In that split second, he tried to reassure himself that he had been careful to check for cars flying through the intersection.

 _Oh, baby. I'm so sorry._

The approach directly opposite them was on a sharp, blind bend leading up to the traffic lights, and the man behind the Chrysler 300 had decided that stopping wasn't an option. The intersection had always been a bad one with numerous fender benders- this would be the first fatality. Six months after the accident which claimed Jeannette's life, the road commission flattened the knoll and opened the view to oncoming traffic.

Erik wouldn't know this or care. It was too late for his sister.

He felt her wrenched away from him before he went into a roll, and tried to tuck himself into a fetal position, his brain telling him to pull everything in, before arms and legs were snapped like so many toothpicks. He attempted to protect his hands, the means of his living, the one thing that gave his life value and purpose, and at least he'd had the good sense to wear the gloves. They were shredded- his hands were not, although his right pinky suffered the indignity of a fracture. He inadvertently bit down hard on his tongue and felt his mouth filling with blood as the dizzying, terrifying transit from motorist to victim played out in an absence of sound and recognizable landmarks. How many times had he made the trip down this altogether forgettable road? His world was mute and featureless, save for a roaring in his ears, and a dizzying kaleidoscope of colors. He squeezed his eyes shut against the vertigo and accompanying nausea as he went ass over tea kettle. Pain exploded in one knee as it scraped pavement and sharp stones dug into the scant meat of his leg; the gravel's only purpose in life, to inflict harm upon him. His bony hip became molten agony as he landed hard on it, his battered body at last coming to a sudden and bone jarring stop. A series of grants were forced from his damaged mouth as his head was bounced indifferently off of the pavement.

He kept his eyes screwed shut, his breath pistoning in and out like a bellows, before he cracked them open, the orange-red of the dying sun, casting a bloody light over the intersection. He moved to sit up, his ears ringing as he tried to hone in on the whimpers assaulting his ears, his head wobbling as he sought the direction of the noise.

 _Jeannette._

 _My God. Jeannette._

People were crowded around him; he was flotsam adrift in a sea of legs as passersby stopped and attempted to aid the injured, while others pulled to the side of the road, their wide eyes taking in the sight of mayhem. The Phantom lay on its side like a dead animal, the back tire now flat, the fender, twisted and bent.

Another whimper- this one ending on a mewling cry of pain. Erik batted away the supporting arm of a man insisting he lie still. "Just 'til the paramedics get here, buddy. You're bleeding pretty good from your mouth. You might have ruptured something," he said helpfully.

Erik raised his head and was rewarded by a spike of pain at the movement. His gorge rose suddenly and he bent over, emptying his stomach onto the pavement. With a shaking hand, he swiped at his mouth, smearing blood and vomit across his mask. The whimpering began again and he struggled to his feet, staggering away from the helping (hindering) hands. The scream of a siren split through the muted babble of voices, cutting through the air with a mechanical arrogance, although he could still make out the sound of someone sobbing uncontrollably.

His halting steps took him to a cluster of people- to the one person he needed to see alive and whole. _His_ sister was filled with too much vitality to lie down in the dirt and give in to the laws of nature. Those being, a collision involving two speeding objects always resulted in the destruction of the weakest.

"Shud. Ub," he growled at the man still crying like his favorite toy had been taken away from him. Erik's voice was nowhere near its usual beautiful tone, his badly bitten tongue having swelled, making lucid speech nearly impossible. He dutifully spat out a mouthful of blood, as he slowly approached the people grouped around a bundle of clothes. Nadir Khan was crouched over the clothes with an air of possession that at any other time would have been funny.

The whimpering was a keening now, and he despised the hopeless sound of it as he dropped to his tortured knees and crawled the rest of the way to his sister.

His little sister.

"No, baby. No. no, no. Ged up. Stob jokin'," he entreated. He reached for her and nearly went over, dizziness playing with his equilibrium. He began rocking himself back and forth, his fingers scrabbling at her scraped and torn hand, cradling it in his much larger one as he held it to his chest.

 _My fault_

 _My fault._

 _Mine..._

Nadir glanced up at his friend who was making odd noises in the back of his throat. Erik was surely coming undone right before his very eyes. "H-Help is on the way," his eyes wide and shocked. "They'll see to her," he whispered, trying to convince himself of that very thing.

Erik forced his eyes to Jeannette's still form, absently noting the jewel brightness of the red crawling down her chin and throat, and into her soft hair. The road rash was only a minor injury. Jeannette's major trauma was a fatal one; the real damage had been done when she hit the curb with devastating force, and in spite of the helmet she wore, impacted her neck causing a cervical fracture. Her brainstem had been severed- the Grand Central Station for all nerve activity in the body, ie; consciousness, breathing, heart rate, blood pressure.

The keening whimper began again, and Erik had had enough of it. "Make 'im stob," he said to no one in particular, gazing helplessly around him. "Make id stob."

"It's coming from you, mister," a young woman said timidly. "Are you in pain? The EMT's are on the way. J-Just relax. Okay?"

Erik sucked in a breath, forcing the noise to end on a shaky exhalation of air. He could still hear the other man crying, and turned to see him sitting helplessly on the curb while others hunkered down beside him.

He reached out a hand and allowed his fingers to stroke his sister's cheek. "'ang on, Boo," he whispered. "'ang on."

He looked up in agitation as the crying continued unabated. "'e needs to shud ub."

"That's the guy who hit you," the young woman responded, and backed hastily away as Erik suddenly and painfully lurched to his feet. "He's not hurt or anything. He's just..."

"'e didn' stob. Why didn' 'e stob?" his breath catching on a ragged sob. The woman cringed away from the blood and spittle which flew from the injured man's mouth. She backed away from him, frightened of his appearance, and the odd gargling noises he was making.

Erik, head aching, spat out another mouthful of blood and reeled away, his intentions clear only to himself as he approached the man with grim purposeful strides, or at least trying to on a badly bruised hip. His bumbling shuffle seemed to be more of a man on one too many benders, but despite his legs giving him a hard time, he staggered over to the crying lump of humanity. Erik's shock and benumbed state was wearing away fast, replaced by a rage so white hot, a vein had begun to visibly throb in his temple at the very idea that his sister was lying injured because of a reckless moron who couldn't bother himself to wait two minutes. He was anxious to get back to Jeannette, but he needed to take care of some very urgent business. To wit-

\- the sobbing pile of dung at his feet.

The man glanced up as Erik neared, his heavy jowls quivering, his voice clogged with tears. "Hey, man! I-I'm sorry. S-So so s-sorry. I didn't see you. I swear...I-"

He never got a chance to finish as Erik hauled him to his feet and backhanded him across the mouth. It felt so satisfying, he did it again, his pinky finger lodging an agonized protest. He got four more punches in, the man's face dissolving in blood, tears, and snot, before a couple of men stepped forward and attempted to pry him off the now semi-conscious man. Erik simply braced himself using the man's thick neck for his anchor and began to squeeze the life out of him, all the while giving a lecture on the man's perversity, the pain from his own injuries of little concern.

"The ligh' was _red_. Id was red!" spraying the man with blood and spit, his hold tightening on the man's neck. "Are 'ou _blin_ _e_ or jus' stubid? Yur siddin' in two thousand pounds of machinery poinded ad uss!"

The man struggled for air, his fingers clawing ineffectually at the immovable hands, his legs thrashing weakly. His face had darkened alarmingly, eyes bulging helplessly as he managed a weak cry and doubled over in agony, before going limp. Erik simply followed the man's body down, never relaxing his grip, thumbs placed firmly over the man's trachea, the strength of his fingers well honed, thanks to decades at the piano. Erik's lips were peeled back from his teeth in a grimace of concentration.

 _Oh, yes_ _ss_.

Another man in the small crowd of on-lookers came forward and grabbed for one of Girard's arms, and ineffectually tugged, doing very little to break that terrifying grip on the man's throat.

"He's a fuckin' pitt bull," one man said to another as they watched events unfolding.

"Yeah, Probably high on somethin' by the look of it. I've seen dudes as strong as ten men when they're on PCP."

The other man snorted. "Where'd ya see that?"

"An episode of Cops," was the laconic reply.

The police having arrived on the scene, got right down to the business of subduing Erik as they attempted to break his deadly hold. They pried at his fingers and got nothing for their troubles, until one officer used his nightstick against Erik's knuckles, only managing to break another finger.

"Get out your taser, Brian," the other cop panted.

Brian struggled to take out his taser while keeping a sure grip on the wild man they were trying to subdue. He managed to deploy it in drive stun mode, applying it directly to Erik's right side, just above the hip. Results were not as instantaneous as they had hoped for, but his hands eased their deadly mission, as the agonizing jolt of electric current nearly drove him to his knees. They were able to pry Erik's hands off of the unconscious man the rest of the way. He let out a strangled howl and threw them all off, his intention to once more wrap his hands around the man's bruised and swollen throat. He swung at the first cop who approached him again, a solid roundhouse that caught the officer unawares, splitting his lip. The powerful blow knocked the cop off balance and down he went, bleeding heavily from the mouth. Two more cops had arrived and joined the fray.

"Son of a bitch!" the downed officer yelled, lunging back onto his feet, and tased Erik yet again, watching in satisfaction as he keeled over, Girard's adrenalin rush finally nearing its end. The two officers caught him, and none too gently eased him to the ground. They cuffed him roughly before he tried for another round.

The paramedics were working on Jeannette, stabilizing her for transport. Nadir stood helplessly by as she was loaded into the ambulance. He reached out a hand to one. "Is she-"

"You family?" the EMT asked hurriedly as he prepared to get into the ambulance.

"No," he croaked, "but that is her brother over there," drawing the paramedic's attention to the man now subdued. "Please... may I go with her?"

"Sorry. Cops'll want a statement," and left Nadir standing there alone, watching numbly as the ambulance took off for the ten minute ride to the trauma center.

He looked around for Munn, and found him and his bike long gone from the scene, and wandered numbly over to where his addled friend had been loaded onto a gurney and strapped down. The man Erik had attacked was in the back of another ambulance which had just left, the siren clearing an urgent path down the road.

Erik struggled weakly against his restraints, already much calmer for the 50 cc's of Haldol now percolating through his veins. "My... my... sis... _sis_ ser. Led me ub," his mouth a bloody mess, his eyes holding a wealth of misery and sorrow. The weight of the entire world rested on his narrow shoulders, and he felt every single ounce of its terrible burden, but thankfully from a safer distance. His awful grief was waiting in the wings, ready to drive him insane, but as yet it couldn't cut through the fog now clouding his brain.

"Sure, sure," one of the cops replied. "For now though, be a good boy and just lie there quiet. You're goin' for a ride." As the EMTs prepared to load him into the ambulance, the cop looked sharply at Khan, "and you're going to give me a statement, and tell me why your friend here is a nutjob wearing a false face."

As his agitation dissipated, Erik glanced one last time at Nadir. "Jen-" that one word, a mere breath of sound, his eyes deep pools of anguish.

He didn't see the other man's nod or his tears, as Erik's heavy eyelids gave up the fight to stay open and briefly left the nightmare behind, only to wake up to another.

One which would not end for three very long years.

* * *

"Now you know everything. Still believe I didn't cause my sister's death?"

She spared him a glance, and the compassion present in her eyes, and something else he saw swimming in their blue depths, gave him hope. "Yes."

"How can you not?" he whispered, unable to grasp her reasoning after having lived for five years with his very formidable guilt.

Christine reached across the short distance and took his hand in hers. "I can't begin to imagine your pain, but Jeannette wasn't forced onto that bike, Erik. It was tragic, but it _was_ an accident."

His thin fingers curled around hers. "I was out of control. I _know_ that, although some of my actions even now are hazy. Do you know what it's like to be seen as a violent lunatic? How awful it is to _be_ a violent lunatic? Or how utterly agonizing it is to get tased twice?"

She nodded sagely. "I heard what it does to the muscles. Some people even lose control of their bladder."

He nodded. "I nearly did. _That_ I remember."

Yeah, I know it's possible."

"You do?"

"Mm. Saw it on an episode of Cops."

His brows climbed invisibly to his hairline. "You watched Cops?"

"Not willingly," she scoffed. "Nadir was researching for a role in a movie once and watched the show religiously. I saw the episode where a guy got tased and I couldn't believe his reaction."

"Trust me, de Chagny. It is a painfully direct way of getting someone's attention."

"That's what Nadir said, more or less. Why... he said he once had a friend who was... who got..." She took her eyes off of the road and stared wide eyed at the man beside her, his bony knees appearing to be hovering uncomfortably somewhere beneath his equally bony chin. "My God! It was y _ou!"_

"Appears so. A dubious honor, I'd say."

"I actually did wet myself once. Happened when I was pregnant with Min," her glance sheepish. "Louise made me laugh so hard when I was nearly nine months along, I sat down on a step and just cut loose. I started crying when I realized I'd peed myself. Laughing and crying... _now_ who sounds like the lunatic?" She shook her head in vexation. "I cannot _believe_ I just told you that!"

"I won't tell if you don't," he replied in faint amusement, grateful for the lightening of his mood.

"I think I would have liked your sister. We're close to the same age.

"Or would have b-been," she stuttered. She concentrated on the road, the traffic having become a little heavier.

"I miss her, Christine," he said quietly. "I suppose that will never change."

"I still miss my parents," she agreed. "I was with my dad when he died, and the ache does ease after a while. We never forget though."

He refused to look at her, but squeezed her hand gently in reply.

"Your mother. She didn't exactly approach you with comforting arms, did she?"

"A very astute observation," Erik responded, his lip curled in a sneer. "No, she did not. I was permitted to attend my sister's funeral, nearly sedated out of my mind, but I do recall seeing Claire long enough for her to look at me as if I were inhuman _and_ a murderer, no doubt wishing it was me that had died. Something I yearned for also. The...the guilt alone was-"

He swallowed hard.

"Hey," she murmured, "It's high time you quit beating yourself up. And I can understand why you over-reacted with the guy who hit you. They probably gave him a slap on the wrist, and allowed him to-"

"He died from a massive heart attack... brought on by me," Erik said matter-of-factly.

At her sharp intake of breath, he put a hand up to his face, as though to rub aching eyes. He dropped it, and instead peered out the windshield at the glittering prisms of sun washed snow. "He died on the way to the hospital, and couldn't be revived. Turns out, he was a coronary just waiting to happen and I was the on-switch. There was a trial. I was charged with voluntary manslaughter, but extenuating circumstances being what they were, I was remanded to Smith's Grove for three years to be kept secluded and rehabilitated until I was no longer considered dangerous. That was my sentence, because it was deemed a reactive psychosis brought on by grief and trauma that led to my breakdown. Something though, had to be done with the lunatic still considered a danger to himself and others, because what if the lunatic had another bad day?

"The parents of the man who died, wrote letters everyday to any and all who would listen, to keep me incarcerated until the end of my days. Of course, I didn't help my own cause very much; if I would have cooperated more, my stay would have been shortened by a year or better, but I didn't really give a damn about anything for a very long time, and I have to admit, I was fairly hostile. I couldn't get it out of my head, that I had been my sister's judge and executioner.

"They were able to get Claire to admit that I was a problem child growing up, by citing my record of stealing and rolling a car years before. She was of the opinion that I had always been a little wonky, what with my deformity, often making comments concerning my mental resemblance to musical geniuses from the past who never had both oars in the water."

Christine snorted, indignant for him years after the fact. "Maybe because they were in canoes," she seethed. "What a poor excuse for a mother."

He said nothing, but considered her defensive attitude toward him to be a very good sign indeed. "You see before you the end result of all of that hard work- the drugs, restraints, and endless talks with talking heads in a room with bland prints on the walls, and anything that could be construed as a weapon removed so as not to tempt me to more violence."

He glanced over at her before staring out the window. "Did you know that they still use shock treatment on unruly patients? No? Well they do, because I am a beneficiary of them. Strait jackets are no longer used as much for restraint...drugs do a much better job of turning a fractious patient into a benign one. I was severely depressed after the accident, and consented to the treatments." He chuckled coldly. "I really had very little choice in the matter, you see. Everything was done to keep my inner demon asleep. That angry, vengeful brute that wanted to smash things. The loss of my dignity and privacy was a small price to pay for the loss of my sister, but it was rough going early on. I was the freak in Rm. 205. Not that they called me that to my face, but I heard the name from time to time when they discussed me outside of my room. I earned the appellation for more than just my face.

"I attacked an orderly six months after I became a resident of the institution. It was during one of my more lucid periods when I was given a little more freedom. I caught him attempting to feel up another patient- a young woman who could barely hold her head up, let alone fend off the advances of a pervert. It was my word against his. For breaking his nose, I was kept in isolation with very little to keep my mind occupied. Therefore, the accident was replayed over and over again, until I honestly considered finding a way to end my life."

This last was barely uttered, Christine having to strain to hear him. But hear him she did. "Poor Erik," she said, throat tight, tears sliding down her cheeks and hanging suspended from her chin, until she swiped a hand across her face. For him. Tears for the lonely and bedeviled man that he had been. She nodded her thanks when he passed her a neatly folded handkerchief.

Her throat aching and nose running, she eyed the pristine square of cloth dubiously. "Permission to blow?" she asked hoarsely.

A much needed smile cut across the grimness of his masked face. A weak one, but a smile all the same. "Permission granted. I didn't mean to make you cry," and waited until she had wiped her nose vigorously before continuing. "Fortunately, after a month, I was allowed to rejoin the living, and my...therapy proceeded...anything to manage my anger issues. Which are still there by the way, only buried much deeper."

Understanding shot through her. "Which is why you have a tendency to back away from trouble, count to a thousand and leave everyone standing."

"Yes, although there is no counting involved, unless it's beats per minute. I retreat inside my head and perform music. I came to loathe needles and the drugs they pumped into my veins. They stole my thoughts and turned my brain into disjointed ramblings, never focusing on any one thing. Even more horrifying is the knowledge that if I am not careful, I could end up in that situation again."

"Who was on _your_ side back then?"

He tilted his head. "No one. I went into Smith's Grove alone, and came out the very same way."

"Your mother?"

"Visited once a week- sitting stiffly in my room for one hour, not a minute less, not a minute more. We barely spoke in those three years."

"Carla felt no love or loyalty to stick around?"

He shrugged. "She left. I couldn't do anymore for her where I was, and I never saw her again until the day she walked into LipSync," and it was said with such world-weary pragmatism, that it broke her heart. "She went and got herself married and divorced while I was in there."

"What about Nadir?"

"Nadir was going through his own personal hell at the time. Once I was discharged, I looked him up and we tried to make sense of what happened that day. For my own part, I was searching for a way to reconnect with Jeannette. Khan was too. After a while, we went in different directions, only touching base by phone. I think it was better that way; I finally started to get a perspective on things." Erik's hand clenched suddenly on his knee. "I never want to go back there," he whispered.

" _Ever._ "

Her hand found his again, weaving their fingers together in a tight hold. He had told her about the most traumatic period of his life and survived. He was relieved, and felt not only grateful, but a warm pulse of tenderness, that here was the friend he had needed so desperately for so long. A friend and yet, more...

 _No. Best not to go there._

"Do you know... I have never felt a moment's remorse for the man I killed? Not. One." His eyes were wary of what she would do with this knowledge, but he nevertheless wanted it out in the open. No more secrets between them.

Which did not mean that he wasn't terrified of her reaction.

"He took Jeannette's life. I may have put the gun in his hand, but he pulled the trigger."

She shook her head. "I won't judge you, Erik. You do that enough for the both of us, and besides...it's five years too late for it. I only know the man I see now.

"And I like him a lot."

He let out the breath he'd been holding. His thumb lightly traced circles in her palm. "It should have been me that died," he said softly. "Not her."

Christine vehemently shook her head. "Can I just say that I'm glad it wasn't? I think it's more than time to stop punishing yourself. You've paid your dues." She glanced at their joined hands, his appearing deceptively delicate, when she well knew it was not. "I don't think your sister would've wanted you to carry so much guilt for so long."

He turned and looked out the window, staying that way for a few tense minutes, before facing her again, his eyes weary, but seemingly more at peace. "Want a cup of coffee? Get off at the next exit. I'll even buy, de Chagny."

She swallowed around the lump in her throat, managing to sound somewhat normal. "You bet your sweet ass you'll buy, Girard! I had to spend two days trapped in a house with your wicked witch of a mother."

"Consider it done."

"And what about your amoral almost ex-fiancee who suddenly finds you irresistible? So yeah, you owe me big time!"

"I sure do," he said, voice low and deliberate. "Make that coffee _and_ a donut."

* * *

 **Next chapter- Girl talk. A visit to LipSync. Maneki Neko.**


	18. The Course of True Love

**Yeah. It's long again ;)**

* * *

Meg handed out the wrapped hot dogs and drinks, then sank into a chair beside the other two women. They were on a break, Sorelli having coerced the little ballerina to traipse out to the lunch wagon in front of the Lyceum and buy their food.

"I had to wait in a long line of gaffers and scene shifters," Meg grumbled, "and they order enough food for _two_ lunches. Your turn to stand in line next time, Sorelli."

Louise took a bite of her hot dog and closed her eyes in bliss. "Mm. Haven't had a dog from Jerry's lunch wagon in ages, Giry, so quit griping and let me enjoy." She licked brown mustard off of one finger. "Besides, I bought, so dig in!"

Meg shot her a sour look. "Wait 'til I genuflect in the face of such munificence!" She turned to Christine. "Okay, what did I miss?"

"Nothing much," Christine answered. "I wanted to know what Min was up to while we were gone."

"Should've asked Sorelli what she and Phil were up to instead," Meg retorted, waggling her eyebrows.

Christine sipped her iced tea and wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. "Oh, I didn't have to. I just asked my daughter, the resident snoop."

Louise shrugged indifferently. "She could only have told you that Phil and I kept our hands to ourselves while sitting through umpteen demonstrations of card tricks." She plucked a french fry out of its cardboard sleeve and dunked it in ketchup. "By the way, be sure to thank Erik for me," she said, her tone grievous. "I never knew there were so many combinations of cheap tricks to cheat someone out of their money! Min is well on her way to a life of crime."

"Well, at least it kept you two vertical. Except for the time she caught Phil attempting to eat your face off. I believe that was on the couch?"

"Eat my face off?" Sorelli sputtered. "No such thing happened! Besides... she had already gone to bed and got back up for a drink of water. We didn't see-" She stopped in confusion when the two women started to laugh. "What?" looking from one to the other.

"You just told on yourself, Louise," Meg said with a grin.

Christine waved a hand. "You're just not used to having a curious child around."

"Figures we'd get caught," Louise complained. "We shared a few very nice kisses. And that's all."

"Sure, sure. Nothing wrong with that," Christine soothed her.

"I _do_ know that a certain little girl was very happy when a certain very tall man of our acquaintance walked through your door. She tackled Erik and stuck to him like velcro."

"Yeah, I noticed. I had to stand in line for a hug from my own daughter," Christine grumbled, but Sorelli was quick to note her rather pleased smile.

"So," Meg began. "Tell us about _your_ weekend. Um...what's Erik's mother like, was Carla a bitch all weekend, and the most important tidbit...did you sleep alone?"

"Okay. Here it is in order. She's a dragon. Yes. Yes and no."

"Whadaya mean yes and no?" they chorused.

"Yes, the first night we shared a bed. No, the second night he slept elsewhere."

"Ooh," Meg breathed. "You the first night and Carla the second?"

Sorelli circled a finger. "Back the truck up, Daae! You two slept in the same bed? I want...nay, I _demand_ details! Starting with...was it good?"

She shook her head, amused by her friends' prying. Nothing new there. "We shared a _bed,_ Louise. Nothing more than that. They didn't know I was tagging along, and the other rooms weren't ready for guests. And Giudicelli wouldn't cough up anymore sheets. I think she expected me to sleep in the car, really. Simple as that."

"Nothing is ever simple with you, Christine," Sorelli said, disgusted. "Share a bed with the Voice, and you two keep your hands to yourselves? You're an idiot."

"Why, thanks, Louise. The compliments never stop with you."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, I do, but I don't need the drama in my life anymore. I'm taking a moratorium on men for the next year or so." She gave a huge put upon sigh. "Never works out for me. Besides, I like Erik as a friend...why complicate matters by becoming lovers?" Thoughts of the bathroom incident and a few stolen kisses floated helpfully to the front of her mind.

Nimbly, she sunk them.

"Mm. Let me know how that works out, will you? Hell, the pair of you could always have phone sex. With him on the other end talkin' dirty, you'll come every time."

"You're disgusting, Louise," Meg declared. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were talking about yourself...not poor old Christine here."

"Why, thank you, Meg!" poor old Christine replied, before muttering, "I think."

"Not a problem," Giry answered. "Okay, so nothing happened with _you,_ but what about the second night? Any action in Carla's bed?"

"You know...you two ladies need a little action of your own! But as far as I know, he slept across the hall from me. _Alone._ That's what he told me."

"How can you believe him, Chris?"

"I just do," she said simply, recalling the ride home from Connecticut and the revelations which had explained so much about her friend. Even the fact that Erik once had a very short fuse which could suddenly explode into violence, didn't sway her from believing that they could safely put their lives in his hands. He would never harm them. If she knew anything at all about him, it was that.

They had said nothing more about the accident which claimed his sister's life and put him away for three years. The door was, for all intents and purposes, closed for good on the subject. And she was fine with it.

She trusted her instincts, but trusted her daughter's even more. When they entered the apartment on arriving home, Min had raced across the room and launched herself at Erik, wrapping arms and legs around him just like a trained monkey. And he was happy to see her, his arms closing tentatively around the little girl in returned affection.

"He's a decent and good man who's been badly hurt by people who were only using him, and I... _and_ Min, care for...for him," Christine finished lamely.

"As in love?" Sorelli asked her, forgetting about her lunch for a moment.

Christine shrugged, trying to appear flippant. "Yeah. You know me. Love your fellow man and give him a helping hand."

Louise eyed her friend slyly. "Uh huh. Just a helping hand? No other body part involved?"

"Shut up, Sorelli," Meg said mildly. "If Chris said nothing went on, then you should believe it." It just occurred to her that Christine was at work and it was Sunday. "Hey, who's watching your daughter?"

"Erik. I took today for the co-worker who worked my shift while I was gone. I'll get Wednesday off instead, and be there when he installs the new floor in the kitchen."

"Oooh...you two are getting very domestic. You sure nothin's going on?" Sorelli asked hopefully, arching a brow.

"Yep."

"He's home today?"

"Nope. Min's getting an insider's view of LipSync, and a look at what her best friend does for a living."

"Why is _she_ so lucky? I wouldn't mind hearing him sing again myself," Louise groused.

"Then go to a show," Meg said reasonably.

"Maybe I will. Want to go?"

"Sure. Pick a night."

"I have to get back to work." Christine shoved her lunch trash in a paper bag. "Come over sometime and Min will do a show and tell on the band."

"Screw the band," Sorelli retorted. "I want the dirt on Giudicelli."

"Heh. So do I," Christine agreed. "I'll pick Min's brains when she gets home."

* * *

 _'And you said rise above._

 _Open your eyes up._

 _And you said rise above,_

 _But I can't. I can't.'_

Min was perched on a chair just behind Erik as he stood at his keyboard and rehearsed with the band. They were doing Rise Above 1 from the musical, Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark.

She was unconsciously swaying in time to the beat, utterly captivated by his voice and stage presence.

"Wow," she whispered. "Just... _wow_."

Min had accompanied Erik to the club with excitement and high hopes, and had not been disappointed. After being introduced to the band, Erik settled her in the chair with a bag of pretzels and a fruit juice.

"You let us know how we do," giving her a wink, before placing himself at the Forte 7.

She nodded, feeling very important, as she studied the various musicians of Mood Savvy. Aside from Erik, she liked Reggie Acosta the best. He was cute with his spiked blonde hair and nimble fingers as they worked the frets on his guitar, and Min had colored up when he smiled at her. They were all welcoming in varying ways, but the one who had caught her interest the most, was the one Min liked the least.

Carla Giudicelli. The soprano had taken one look at the little girl, whose hand had been curled securely in Erik's, and said snidely, " _She_ sticking you with her kid now? I told you not to get in too deep."

Erik glanced down at Min and gently squeezed her small hand. "I invited Araminta down here today, Carla. She is my guest. I expect you to remember that."

The woman stared hard at him before settling a look of pure loathing on Min. "Fine. Just make sure she's quiet," before striding off to a few derisive hoots from the band.

Practice was fun for Min as they ran through the music chosen for that evening, her eyes following Erik's every move as she watched his long hands in fascination. They appeared fine boned and delicate, but were in truth, filled with a resilient strength as he pressed them unerringly to the keys, transporting the little girl with his achingly alive vocals through numbers like Steppenwolf's, Magic Carpet Ride or The Door's, People Are Strange. Her thoughts would wander a bit as the music ground to a halt, and weaknesses in the band's harmonization were worked out bit by bit. The group of musicians on the whole, were more than willing to follow Erik's suggestions, his being the most knowledgeable.

The most contentious member didn't surprise Min in the least.

They were working on the piano ballad Hello, by Adele, when Erik called a halt yet again, and Min was treated to one of Carla's famous melt downs.

Girard held up a hand as he left the keyboard and approached center stage. Carla and the back-up singers, Griffin Rhodes and Kendrick Lloyd fell silent, Giudicelli throwing her arms up in disgust. "What _now_?" she demanded, highly pissed. It was the third time he had stopped the band and interrupted.

And it was _her_ performance meriting his attention.

Again.

"You are blending too much with the chorus, as I have pointed out innumerable times! You're meant to sing the lines over layers of backing vocals, not hide your voice the way that you are doing. It is to be a...a luscious wall of sound _behind_ you...your instrument spread over theirs."

"What the bloody fuckety fuck are you going on about? This isn't the Met for God's sake! Just a bunch of two bit losers with nothing better to do with their time than play pretend. And I think I know how to perform the song, Erik, regardless of what _you_ think!"

"Is that right?" he replied, tone deceptively mild. "Then tell me why you insist on increasing the tempo all by yourself? It's 79 beats per, Carla." He jerked his head, impatiently flicking a strand of hair out of his eye. "And where is the soul? Lyrically, the song focuses on themes of nostalgia and regret. You sound like someone just gave you a wad of cash and told you to spend it anyway you please!"

"Don't be shy, Erik! Just say what you goddamn mean and get it over with!"

"I believe that is what I just did," he said quietly. Too quietly. His eyes had narrowed dangerously, and Sawyer observing them, felt a prickle of unease. Erik took a step closer to the soprano. "Although you are correct about one thing. This isn't the Met. However, you _will_ sing as though it is. Clear?"

"Listen to the man, Carla," Sawyer told her obligingly. "He's right on."

Her ire found another target. "Shut the fuck up, Arons! What do you know?"

"I know stubborn when I see it, mama. You know about crouching tiger, hidden dragon?"

"More of your bullshit, more than likely."

He nodded at Erik. "Nah...more of his. He's about to claw your ego to shreds and breathe some fire on that so... _prano_ voice of yours," laughing at her reddening face.

Erik, long arms held loosely at his sides, glanced over at the drummer, his stance one of patient forbearance when he was anything but. "Shut up, Arons," he said genially, before turning back to Carla. "Well?"

Giudicelli tried staring Girard down, which had never worked in the past and didn't work now. Erik was all business onstage. "Fine," she sneered. "I'll sing like a fucking angel!"

Arons exploded laughter at that. "Hee! Girard here puttin' a crimp in your wings, doll? Hell, I didn't know angels could fly so low. Feelin' the heat yet?"

Carla folded arms across her chest and made a moue of distaste. "Why don't you worry about your little drum set, Arons and leave the singing to me?"

The black man merely chuckled. "Can do, Carla. Ca _nnn_ do," giving her two hits on the snare, one simultaneous bass kick, and a crash on the small cymbal. "I'm just a drum bum. What do _I_ know?"

Giudicelli turned to leave, but Erik stopped her. "Where are you going?"

"Break time, sweetheart. We'll pick up in ten."

"We will pick up now, Carla. Get it right, then you can take a break," his manner implacable.

"Now you just wait one fucking sec-"

"Your little tantrum is finished for the day," cutting across her angry voice with undeniable meaning.

He was through with restraint.

Everyone on that stage went as quiet as the proverbial dormouse when the masked man's reasonable attitude hit the brick wall doing ninety. Yellow eyes were mere slits, and his mouth thinned to a ruthless slash. Erik wasn't shouting or hurling profanities at Giudicelli, but quiet menace was apparent in every line of his gaunt frame, and was much more effective than any amount of noise. To Min, her gentle friend had disappeared to be replaced by a grim stranger, radiating anger and disapproval.

"I've had enough of your foul temper and vitriol. You are nothing but a two-bit backup singer putting on diva airs," he said coldly. "If you don't take your place with the others and continue, you can damn well consider yourself replaced! There are a thousand more voices just as mediocre as yours, and they're all waiting in the wings to step into your rather tiny shoes. If you don't believe me, let's take a walk and ask Mark Abba what _he_ would suggest. I'm sure he can give you a glowing reference for the Shrunken Head."

Someone behind her snickered at the mention of the sleazy bar down the street.

Carla said nothing, but simply stood there staring at Erik, her green eyes alight with a peculiar gleam, her tongue darting out to moisten dry lips. To a puzzled Min, she had the appearance of someone just handed a quart of chocolate fudge ice cream and a big spoon. Giudicelli then did a complete about face, and sidled up to Erik, placing a well manicured hand on his shoulder and giving it a squeeze. She leaned into his side, conversing in a low voice, and the young girl was even more confused when Arons and Griffin Rhodes started to laugh raucously.

"That's right, Giudicelli!" Griffin called. "Suck up to all that male dominance. Whatever turns you on and gets your thong wet!"

"Hey, dick brains! There's a little girl sittin' just over there, so can it!" Kendrick hissed.

Fierro, the bass guitarist winked at Griffin and did a chord sequence from Sweet Child O' Mine by Guns N' Roses. "Says the pot to the kettle."

"Stuff it, Ramos," Kendrick returned with a grin, flipping him off.

Carla ignored them all, preferring to press up against Erik and smooth any feathers she may have ruffled during her outburst. She could well appreciate a show of force from him. The two stooges got it right in one. It made her motor purr like a kitten.

With claws.

Min fought down the urge to hop up from her chair and deliver a swift kick to the woman's shin. Erik belonged to them... her and her mom, and she knew with an unshakable conviction, that the singer was trying to change that.

Her mom liked Erik a lot better than she had months ago when he had first come through their door dripping wet and acting like a poor dog nobody wanted. Mom liked him a _whole lot_ better than she had at first, for Min had caught her from time to time watching Erik with a dopey smile on her face. Liked him enough now to go Christmas shopping to buy him something nice. And Min was going to be allowed to help pick it out.

She glanced once more at Carla, and even at the tender age of seven, Min recognized a rival.

And decided to do something about it.

She grabbed her throat and started coughing. Loudly.

Erik immediately turned and left the soprano, dropping to one knee beside the little girl. "All right, child? Maybe it went down the wrong pipe," he murmured, lightly patting her back. "Accosta! Bottle of water, if you please!"

Min shook her head violently and croaked, "P-Pepsi!"

Erik's mouth curled into a crooked grin, as he smoothed a hand down her soft hair. "Water for now," he said lightly.

Min heaved a relieved sigh. Her gentle friend was back, the angry stranger gone.

Soon, she was surrounded by other members of the band, Reggie handing her a plastic bottle of cold water, while Kendrick shoved Erik aside and pushed the girl's hair out of her eyes, making noises of sympathy. Min took a couple of token sips, feeling a small amount of shame for her deception, but she smiled wanly at Erik and the others to show that she had recovered. As she looked around at the band, her gaze happened to meet the narrow eyed glare of a highly skeptical Carla, and Min knew that one of their number wasn't impressed with her acting abilities.

Not in the least.

* * *

"Tell me again why you have to start at the crack of dawn?" Christine sat hunched at the table, eyes puffy from sleep. "I hate early risers," she said to no one in particular.

He gestured to the window where the sun, such as it was, was already up. "It is hardly the crack of dawn, de Chagny. You just need a cup of coffee to get both eyes open and focused, then you'll see it's actually eight o'clock, very cloudy, and will be raining any minute now."

"Har," the late riser mumbled to the table top.

"She's really grumpy before she gets that first mouthful," Min added helpfully, eating the scrambled eggs Erik had fixed for her.

"Got that right," Christine muttered as he set a cup before her at the table. She took a sip of her coffee and glanced around the mostly empty kitchen and into their living room where the stove and fridge now resided.

Erik leaned down to Min and said in a stage whisper, "Morning is not her favorite time of the day. I waited for her to help me with the appliances and she never showed."

"A big strong man like you, Girard hardly needs a light weight like me to wrestle the fridge into the other room, now do you?" Christine muttered, giving in to a jaw cracking yawn.

Min glanced up at Erik and rolled her eyes. "She's helpless if she has to lift anything heavier than the vacuum cleaner."

"Hurry and finish, Min. The bus will be here soon." She waggled a finger at her daughter. "First though, take your foot outta your mouth."

Erik looked thoughtfully at Christine. "You must have hit a nerve, Araminta. I notice she always hustles you out the door when you do."

Christine appraised him slowly. "I see your formal trousers are being utilized once again. And you look very debonair in them, along with that ratty white shirt and old boots."

"I always maintain a certain style, de Chagny," he sniffed. "It might be physical labor, but why not do it with a little panache? One never knows what situation one will find themselves in."

"Yes. One doesn't," she scoffed.

"What's pa...pa _natch_?" Min inquired, as she put on her coat.

"Panache means a grand or um...flamboyant manner. Kind of like Erik and his choice of work clothes."

"I think he looks nice," Min declared.

"What do you know?" her mother snipped. "You're so young."

"But mature and discerning for her age," the man in question added with a decided smirk.

"You _would_ say that," was Christine's parting shot, as she ushered her daughter out the door.

When she returned to the apartment, Erik had already moved table and chairs into the living room, and was assembling his tools. The cartons of oak laminate were sitting in the back hallway, the old lino having already been taken up the day before, and the sub-floor made smooth and level.

He glanced up at her as she came through the door, her hair damp from the icy rain which had just started falling. "Whew! It's blustery out there." She came over and watched as he opened a carton of laminate and began removing the planks from the box. "I saw Mrs. Turley downstairs. She wants to know if you're done yet?"

"Are all women so impatient for results?" he complained.

"Depends on what you're talking about," and grinned when he rolled his eyes at her. "How long will this take?"

Erik tilted his head in thought. "Oh... no more than a week or so."

"A _week_?" she squealed. "That's a hellava lot of takeout!"

"All right. How does a few hours sound?"

"Why you-"

"Uh, uh, uh," he intoned. "No potty mouth, if you please."

"You're a degenerate, you know that?"

"So I've been told."

"Me and who else?"

"Only you, de Chagny," he said, voice properly sad. "Only you."

Christine laughed and threw a tea towel at him. "Get to work, Girard! I'm not paying you to talk."

"You're not paying me at all. Care to work something out?" he said with a leer, and ducked as the wet dish rag joined the towel.

He worked steadily and neatly throughout the morning. Christine, getting laundry and housework done, paused every so often to watch their new floor grow and expand as he measured and cut, sliding piece after piece snugly together and tapping them into place with a rubber mallet. She braved the lousy weather to buy takeout from Choo's on the corner, a combination Japanese/Chinese restaurant she made sure to visit a few times a year. She splurged on avocado rolls, fried rice, and beef with snow peas, knowing Erik wouldn't eat half of it, but decided a small feast was called for. Clutching her bags of food, she was ready to leave when she spied a row of cat bobbleheads beside the cash register. They were sitting on their haunches, their chunky paws raised in an obnoxiously cheerful wave. There were a variety of colors, and the manager of the restaurant, seeing her interest, gave them all a light tap and soon had a small sea of bobbing heads going.

"They are Maneki Neko," the tiny woman informed her. "Fortune Cats that will bring good luck and health to their owners."

Christine touched a finger to a pink cat trimmed in bright red. "They're cute. How much?" thinking Min would like one. Maybe Erik as well. He could always use some extra luck.

"For you... three dollars and fifty cents," and graciously dipped her head. "Your choice."

Christine pointed to the pink one. "That one and..." She picked up a white cat with red ears and collar, placing it near the cash register. "Make it an even six, and I'll give two of them a good home."

The Chinese woman didn't bat an eye. The cheap things were only gathering dust, and that would be two less to clean. "Then consider your luck doubled today and everyday," she said with a polite smile. plucking the pink and red bobblehead from its place on the counter and ringing up the sale. While Christine waited, she read the small piece of cardboard giving the history of the Fortune Cat and the benefits of owning one.

Braving the icy rain again, she hurried home, pausing on the street corner as she waited for the light to change. She was in a neighborhood even seedier than hers, more than a few of the buildings around her empty, their windows for the most part, broken or boarded up. Min's friend Angie, lived no more than two blocks from where she now stood. She hunched her shoulders against the cold, her eye falling on the abandoned firehouse across the street, and wondered not for the first time, how many of these old buildings housed those with no permanent address. Not to mention illegal drug activity. They all should have been torn down years ago, instead of allowing them to fester in their midst and giving the area an even blacker eye.

 _Why sure, Christine. There shouldn't be all this urban blight around you or your oh so swank digs._

The light changed and she crossed the street, suddenly in a rush to get home, not yet willing to admit what was making her feel so buoyantly happy, or why she felt the urge to hurry in the first place. She trudged up the stairs, shaking water off of her coat before entering their apartment. She halted on the threshold and stared at the transformation of her kitchen, the smooth floor planks brightening the space in warm shades of honey and ginger. "It's so beautiful, Erik! I love it."

He was measuring the last floor piece and didn't bother looking up. "I still have to install the baseboard, but that will have to wait for another day, I'm afraid."

Christine set her bags of food down on the counter, and removed her coat and shoes, leaving them in the living room. She slid the white and red cat out of the paper bag, before tiptoeing over to Erik and getting to her knees beside him. With a flourish, she placed the Fortune Cat on a section of the new floor directly in front of him, its head bobbing a cheerful greeting.

"Ta-da!"

"What's this?" he asked, casting one eye toward the bobblehead, before concentrating on cutting the narrow plank to fit.

"That's Neko, your new good luck buddy. I got a pink one for Min. That happy little paw of his is summoning for you, as we speak, good luck and wealth. The white and red colors are for happiness and success in love. Say meow, Erik."

"Meow, Christine," never looking up as he expertly scored the plank and tapped neatly all along the cut edge until he had two pieces, discarding the shorter. When he was done, he reached out a finger and set the head to bobbing again. "Good luck? I can always use more of that," he conceded, finally looked at her. "Thank you," he murmured, hesitating a moment before admitting, "I can't remember the last time anyone ever gave me a gift."

"Your welcome," she replied softly, arrested by the expression in his eyes as they stared unblinking into hers.

"Here," he said, ending the moment with a small sigh, and placing the last plank in her hands. "The honor belongs to you, I believe."

"Me? You're just being nice. You want me to think that I actually helped when I was nothing but the go-fer."

"Not at all, but you can shoulder some of the blame if at a later date the floor warps, then I can point to you and say, 'she did it'."

 _She_ had to laugh. "You deserve the kudos, Erik. It's beautiful."

"You are," he whispered, those two words seeming to leap inexplicably from his mouth, followed by the sudden and urgent desire to tug her into his arms and keep her there. Those eyes which drew him in so very easily, were a wide cornflower blue, framed by thick dark lashes, her cheeks apple red from the cold. Christine's hair, which at times seemed to have a life of its own, was tousled from the blustery day and jeweled with glittering rain drops. She looked slightly frazzled, more than a little damp, and most definitely windblown.

She was lovely.

Her laughter hitched in her throat as he leaned closer, his eyes appearing fathomless, their lustrous pupils dilated with some unnamed emotion. Suddenly breathless, Christine stared into them, feeling an odd touch of vertigo, as if she could tumble into that impenetrable gaze and become lost forever inside of his head. She had a queer impression of fatalism, as though this had been planned out in some other part of the cosmos.

Kicking her fatalism in the behind, she moved closer to him as well, annoyed with the empty space between them.

His hand rose with no prior thought of doing so, to trace the clean line of her jaw.

Their mutual intent was reflected in each other's eyes as they knelt on the floor, helpless now to stop the kiss they both knew was coming.

The piece of plank slipped from her fingers as she brought both hands up to his masked face, thumbs stroking the sharp rise of misshapen cheekbones. "Let's see if your luck has improved any," and pressed her mouth to his, the upper part of her lip coming into contact with the smooth coolness of the mask.

Erik froze momentarily at the touch of her lips; not that he didn't crave it- on the contrary, there wasn't anything he wanted more, but kissing was not something he had done very often.

Carla hadn't considered it necessary, until the night she tried to seduce him, but he had managed to brushed her off, not at all eager for a continuation of their previous relationship. She had proven herself to be a treacherous port in the storm that had enveloped him five years ago.

Erik had a long memory.

But he had shared kisses before with Christine and found that he enjoyed them very much. Which was why he remained absolutely still now, wanting to imprint in his memory, the way her mouth felt as it moved gently on his. In case this ended abruptly, as all good things in his life usually did, he would be able to relive it vicariously in his mind, no doubt driving himself insane, playing it over and over like a well-loved piece of music.

She at last pulled away, and his tongue lazily swiped across his lips to taste her there, before eagerly pulling her close again. His mouth met hers in a kiss which held very little finesse, as their lips crashed together with a clacking of teeth. The floor was forgotten as the kiss grew into something neither had planned on.

But oh, it was welcome.

Erik pressed her closer to his body, his hands sliding up and down her back while their lips clung and moved together, loath to break this sweetest of contacts. He gently laid her down on the new floor, shuddering as the tip of her tongue slid between his lips. Christine's warm hands wound through his hair, pulling him down on top of her, his narrow hips resting in the warm cradle of hers.

A sigh of happiness, slipped out of her mouth as his light weight pressed her down, her declaration to her friends a few days ago, forgotten in the rush of sensations she was now caught up in. She wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him in...drawing him in, until he rested hard and aching against her center; the place that had wanted his touch ever since that night in the bathroom. It was more than time to appease the hunger for one another which had grown and thrived even as they had denied its very presence.

She grudgingly broke away from his mouth, gulping in air as his lips, denied her mouth, decided to nuzzle the tender skin behind her ear. "Take me to bed," she whispered.

He nodded against her throat, words beyond him at the moment.

"Your room," she managed to get out, before sucking the lobe of his ear into her mouth.

Erik, still reeling at the delightful direction his day had taken, pushed to his feet and held his hand down to her. Christine grasped it and stood up, allowing him to lead her to a place in their lives they had danced around for months.

Inside his room, he stood silently, staring at the large bed jammed into the corner like an afterthought, and Christine wondered how long it had been since Erik had been intimate with a woman. She placed both hands on his chest, smoothing them across his wildly beating heart and raised up on her toes, planting another kiss on his mouth.

"I haven't... what I mean is..." He grasped her hands and held them between his. "It's been a while," he managed to get out. Erik stood stock still, dry mouthed with the fear that his excitement would play out too quickly and ruin their first time together.

Christine sensing his anxiety, hastened to reassure him. "Shhh," she whispered, stroking his jaw. "No one's keeping score here, least of all me." Smiling indulgently as he continued to just stand there, she added gently, "This is where we take off our clothes," and began unbuttoning his shirt for him.

Erik stared down at the top of her head, his breath coming quicker with every button undone. Could one hyperventilate at a time like this?

She slipped his shirt off and tossed it aside, dropping her eyes to his feet. "Take your shoes off, babe."

Still silent, he bent and tugged at the laces on his boots, cursing hands which were suddenly clumsy and thick. Christine worked on her own clothing, her eyes roaming over his whipcord length, his bent back showing each and every one of his ridged vertebrae. He straightened up and turned to her, keeping his eyes pinned to the floor rather than see any disappointment reflected in hers. Erik knew what he looked like. He was far too pale and spare, his body filled with hollow spaces and too many angles instead of the healthy amount of fat and muscle he should have had on his six foot five frame. His flat stomach was nearly concave, his ribs too easily identified, giving the impression of one who rarely sat down for a good, filling meal. His was a wiry strength with long, lean muscle, by no means revealing the surprising power he could command.

Christine's gaze settled on the faint scattering of sparse black hairs on his chest, one finger tracing the narrow path going downward and disappearing into his trousers. Erik shivered in reaction at that light touch, a harsh sigh slipping from his mouth.

Treasure trail, she thought, and raised gleaming wicked eyes to his dear, masked face. She didn't have to see any play of emotion there; his body language said it all.

He spared a quick look at her, and Christine's steady regard raking his half naked form, had him doing something he rarely did anymore. Erik could feel two hectic spots of color spreading across his malformed cheeks, and made himself look into her eyes.

"Not exactly what you're used to, I expect," his melodious voice, low and deliberate as bony fingers tangled in his hair.

She caught his defensive stance and the glint of shame in his eyes, and sought to put him at ease. Christine stepped forward and leaned up, pulling his hands away from his hair where they invariably ended up when he was agitated. Her palms resting lightly on each side of his face, she looked him in the eye. "No, you're not what I'm used to," she agreed, kissing him... tasting him. "I'm more familiar with the selfish and shallow type," she kissed him again, this time lingering a little longer, "which you are definitely not."

She backed away, removing her tee shirt before turning around and presenting her back to him. "Unhook me?" and stood patiently waiting as he did so, his calloused fingers brushing the heightened sensitivity of her skin, and it was Christine's turn to shiver.

He accomplished the task with only a slight tremor in his hands, as he undid her bra and moved his palms up to rest them lightly on her bare shoulders. He turned her around to face him, his eyes automatically dropping to her breasts. He wanted to gather them up and feel their weight in each hand...graze eager fingers over those rosy nipples. "Beautiful," he muttered, pulling her slowly into his embrace, both gasping at the feel of skin on skin, her breasts crushed to his thin chest.

"Umph! I can't breathe!" she cried, and reluctantly he loosened his hold a little. "Better," she said, taking a deep breath, "but ease up a little more."

"Then I won't be holding you at all," Erik protested, wanting her small form resting against him for more than just a minute. He would prefer it to be hours.

Every single day.

Forever.

Christine slipped her arms around his neck. "Come down here, mister! I need breath to kiss you, so quit your complaining."

"Like this?" he inquired, bending down and pressing his mouth to hers, feeling a corresponding tightening in his groin as he became even harder.

"Mm," she agreed, threading her fingers into his dark hair.

He held a cool hand to her flushed skin, marveling at how soft she was...how pliant beneath his touch- as though she hungered for it. He had spent many a night picturing this very thing.

And he didn't want to waste one precious moment.

Taking a deep breath, he grabbed Christine's hand, and almost shyly, pulled her to his bed until they were standing awkwardly beside it.

"You'd think we've never done anything like this before," she tittered nervously. Giving herself something to do, she pulled the sheet and blankets down. They stood looking at their presumed love nest, both knowing that once consummated, their status as friends would change forever.

For good _or_ bad.

Noting his hesitation, Christine leaned into him, and obligingly, he bent down. "We need to remove a little more clothing if we're going to get anywhere," she said softly against his mouth.

"Yes," he muttered, and straightened up, undoing his belt and zipper with fingers which continued to make performing such mundane tasks, difficult. He shoved the paint stained trousers down and stepped out of them, revealing his long skinny legs, and Christine fought to keep the smile off her face as she ogled his slim form.

"I should have known they'd be black!" observing his boxer briefs and the very blatant evidence of his desire.

He looked down at his boxers, feeling edgy and tense. "What other color is there? Tidy whities with little yellow duckies?"

"No, but maybe tiny violins." _Tiny violins? You're barking, Christine._

The skin of his legs was as pale as the rest of him, with a very light scattering of black hair. Her gaze fell to his bony feet, and she decided that they were actually very nice as far as feet went. She followed suit and removed her socks, leaning on him as she did so, before wriggling out of her snug jeans, feeling a little self-conscious as she stood there in her plain cotton panties.

"Not pink," Erik muttered, and tried to explain himself. "You seem to like that color, so I thought-"

"Oh, I do, but pink was yesterday. Today is Wednesday, so it's blue," and she snickered self-consciously.

His forehead wrinkled beneath the mask, as he came to terms with different colored underwear for each day of the week. Thank God he was crested and not cloven.

Christine noticed the pursing of his lips, which by now she knew meant bemusement. "Hey. I was just teasing. However," and she felt as if they had been dropped on their heads into a parallel universe; one where bland conversation before sex was standard. "I think we're a little old for show and tell, don't you?"

Erik said nothing... couldn't. He simply stared unblinking at her as if she were a mouth watering meal, and he a starving man.

He _was_ a starving man.

"Those too," he said faintly, indicating her bikinis, one spidery finger reaching out and plucking at them, his eager perusal never wavering.

Christine pushed her panties down slender hips until she stood before him without a stitch on. "Well? Like what you see?" she said with a touch of self-mockery, fully aware of her slight figure. No sultry curves here, she lamented.

"Very much," he croaked, swallowing hard, his Adam's apple bobbing anxiously. For some bizarre reason, his gaze had focused on her belly button. It was an outie, and it was adorable. "I seem to recall seeing that before," he uttered hoarsely, flicking a finger at her navel in a barely audible voice.

"Yep. The night you came home and tried to rearrange the apartment after a few hundred sips of bargain basement booze."

"It was in the basement, all right. I can still taste it from time to time," and unable to stand the space separating them any longer, he dredged up some courage and reached for her, pulling her awkwardly down with him onto the bed. He kept his arms around her, pressing her face to his chest "You are beautiful, Christine. I wish you could say the same about me," he whispered mournfully.

She pulled back, her eyes dropping to the front of his boxers, even as her hand reached out, brushing delicately at the front. Erik stifled a groan when she dipped beneath the waistband to caress him, smiling when he bucked against her. "Oh, but I can say the same," her breath catching at the feel of him. Excited, she grasped the boxers and slowly pulled them down, working them easily past his narrow hips until she could toe them off. Her cheek resting against his chest, she grasped him in her hand, his skin warm, smooth, and achingly hard. "You're awfully nice yourself," she declared, stroking him.

Erik laughed breathlessly. "I'm very happy, you are happy."

"I'd be a crazy woman if I wasn't," she replied with a grin.

His answering chuckle rumbled beneath her ear, and their apprehension melted away, leaving only a healthy lust in its wake. His mouth latched onto hers, as he rolled her neatly beneath him, his lips and tongue thoroughly exploring her mouth before dropping lower. His breathing was heavier now, as her questing fingers lit a fire in his belly, and desperately, he grasped her hand and tugged it away. Wouldn't due to end things before they even got started.

And he was nearly there.

Christine made a mewl of displeasure and reached for him again. Once more he batted her hand away. Understanding finally dawned and she whispered sympathetically, "How long's it been?"

He placed a moist kiss to her throat, snuffling her skin like a randy teenager. "Except for the occasional date night with myself, and before our impromptu meeting in the bathroom...five years."

Wow.

Oh, wow.

"Why so long?"

"Not now," he muttered, snuffling her skin some more, and following it up with an ardent swipe of his tongue. She tasted so damned good. He wished he could put his no-nose there, sans mask. No silicone barriers to impede him.

How he wished.

She wove her hands into his hair, scraping her nails across his scalp, pulling a throaty moan from him, and raising the short hairs on her flushed skin. She could touch him nearly anywhere, and his reaction would be the same.

She felt powerful.

His mouth left hers and slowly made its way down her neck, pausing here and there to lick sweet smelling skin, or nip it lightly with his crooked teeth. He wanted to taste and sample every inch of her, but his ultimate destination were those lovely breasts topped with shy pink nipples, blushing just for him. He considered them to be his by exclusive right.

Come what may, Christine now belonged to Erik.

She just didn't realize it yet.

His mouth finally reached the Promised Land, and he lathed the hard buds enthusiastically, drawing them in and sucking each by turn, and was rewarded when she pushed into him, wrapping her legs tightly around his waist. "Love me," she cried softly, her hand wandering down his flank and diving between their bodies. She took hold of him, her only wish now, to have him inside of her.

He stood rigidly at attention.

Just for her.

Erik reluctantly grasped her hand and pulled it away for the third time. Oh, how he wanted to leave it there, stroking and squeezing him to her heart's content, _and his,_ but it had been far too long of a dry spell. "He's a little excited at the moment," he murmured, embarrassed. "Perhaps when he isn't so... _eager_ for your company-"

"You boys often discuss foreplay, do you?" she said, voice husky with desire. How oddly endearing he was.

Instead of answering her, he took her mouth in a sweet and tender kiss, so very gentle, she was startled when her eyes filled with tears. His hand slid down her belly and into the tight curls at the apex of her thighs. He followed with his mouth, seeking the very center of Christine, exploring her sensitive flesh with his fingers and tongue, as she whimpered and jerked beneath his loving assault. Her excitement was answered with his own, words of adoration spilling from his lips as he kissed his way back up to her mouth, their tongues meeting and colliding with abandon.

Christine, hearing these words of love, banished them for the time being, as her ardor climbed to match his. Men said a lot of things in the throes of lovemaking. It meant very little, really.

Erik hummed low in his throat, finally having reached the end of his endurance, and nestled himself between her hips, the tip of his erection twitching against her mons. He nudged her knees further apart, his body shaking in reaction as he positioned himself to enter her. He dragged her hands up to each side of her head and laced his fingers with hers as he pushed slowly inside, his eyes squeezing shut at the delicious feel of her surrounding him in tight moist heat.

He found himself gauging her reaction to his presence, and was gratified by her sigh of pleasure. He paused for a moment, hoping that his excitement would diminish a little, but Christine had other ideas as she began to squirm beneath him.

"Easy," and softly nuzzled her cheek with his. "Slowly, dear girl...slowly," intense joy washing over him as they began to move together in the ancient rhythm of life.

 _Oh, God._ It felt so good. So very right, as he seated himself even further between her thighs, their bodies joined into one entity, and for now, everything was right in Erik's world. He opened his eyes, wanting to see every emotion she felt, his gaze never wavering, but remaining on hers. His eyes burned with a fierce light behind them, never breaking contact, even when she came apart in his arms.

Christine had given a shuddering sigh as he slowly slid into her, the soft fall of his hair brushing her cheeks as he hungrily kissed her, her body thrumming right along with his. It was so strange... she was no novice when it came to sex, yet this was... different. Her skin felt hot and stretched as she tugged at her lover, pulled him deeper into herself, _moved_ with him, her emotions raw and confusing, whispering of something more than mere sex. Something on the cusp of wonderful. She wanted closer. And closer still. She wanted to be inside of _him_ , nestled close to his heart, but as soon as the bizarre thought entered her mind, she shoved it right back out again.

Sentimental bullcrap.

Abstract thoughts aside, Christine found herself drowning in a tide of sensation as Erik buried himself to the hilt inside of her, the icy rain hissing against their window, a distant noise that neither of them heard. The early afternoon was cold and dreary, but they rocked together in a cocoon of warmth, the delicious friction wiping everything from their minds but each other. His eyes were frighteningly intense as they stared into hers, yet it only succeeded in heightening her arousal and sending it straight to her womb. Those amber depths were swallowing her whole, and she welcomed it more than anything she ever had in her life.

Close to release, he managed somehow to go the distance, even as sweat popped out on his forehead, his hair soon damp with his exertions. When he felt her tightening around him and the first spasms begin, he pumped his hips a few more times, bringing them both to the knife's edge of completion.

And then, let go.

Erik's strangled cry mingled with hers as both chased- and found nirvana.

They clung to each other, riding out the moment, squeezing out every last bit of pleasure. It had been wonderfully explosive, and a peek out of the corner of one eye at her partner, convinced Christine that it had been the same for him as well. His eyes had fluttered closed at the last possible moment, his chest heaving as though he had just run a race, and she reached a hand out, pushing a few stray locks of sweaty hair from his face. His fingers closed over hers and brought them to his mouth, where he reverently kissed each and every knuckle.

Christine felt tears gathering again as his lips moved so tenderly across her hand, and nearly snorted. _What's wrong with me?_

Erik moved off of her then, pulling her with him, tugging the bedclothes up and covering them both. She could feel him shaking in reaction, and slipped her arms around him, holding him close.

Against his better judgment, he was already daydreaming about a future with Christine. A real future. _She_ would see his worth; be able to get past his obvious flaws, and a past that was less than exemplary, realizing what was in his heart. His love for her. For Erik did love her- desperately so. Had for months now. He would take his courage in hand and propose marriage. She would accept, she would have to; they were good together. He would return to the stage, perhaps write his own music again. He felt as though anything was possible now. Christine could sing, maybe he would even accompany her on the piano. There would be money for those ballet lessons Min wanted. His very own family. He wouldn't be alone anymore.

"What are you thinking about?" she whispered softly, nuzzling his neck.

"You," he replied quietly, his fragile hope a tiny flame, at the moment no more than a solitary candle in the blackest of nights. Hope was usually a useless commodity where he was concerned, but regardless, it still refused to wither and die. Right now though, he was content to simply hold her.

"This is nice," brushing his mouth across her temple.

"What is?" having caught a slight note of wonder in his voice.

"Lying here with you."

"Mm, allow me to return the compliment," Christine murmured, one arm slung across Erik's flat belly, her hand resting on his jutting pelvic bone. Right now she was drowsy and content, but she felt as though she could scale a mountain. Well...maybe in a little while. A short nap would be just the thing as she wriggled closer to him, his arms tightening in response.

It wasn't that Erik was the most experienced lover she had ever had. Not that his performance wasn't pleasing. On the contrary; that was more than adequate as her toes curled in remembrance. It was his smoothness that was lacking- his ability to project confidence. He was a shy lover in the dance leading up to sex. But once he got started. Oh my.

He wasn't a handsome man, by any means. His was a face that would take some getting used to, his lean form attenuated as near to the starvation point as a person could get, yet proved to be just as healthy as any other man's. Christine decided Erik's physiology was similar to a greyhound's. Built for speed and endurance, with a fluid grace that unerringly drew the eye as symmetry and balance blended together to create a flexibility not often seen in such a tall man.

Nadir... hell, even Raoul had been what most women look for in a man. But she wouldn't trade where she was or whom she was with for all of the handsome lovers in the world. This time with him had been the sweetest, most tender lovemaking she had ever enjoyed.

Christine lo _v_...no...she _liked_ Erik a lot. Of course she did. And although they had just complicated things by giving in to their desires, she wouldn't regret what they had done. But it didn't mean that they would be more to each other than friends with the added inducement of sex. They were both adults and could handle their new arrangement carefully, and no one should be the wiser. Especially Min. There would be no moving into the same room. No expecting a closer relationship. It would be love in the afternoon and on the side only.

No declarations of lasting devotion. She had been there twice already, and had no wish to put her faith in such a leaky vessel as love ever again.

But the very thought left her sad.

She heard words that sounded familiar. Beautiful words that belonged to a melody, heard on a whisper.

" _Lay your head upon my pillow._

 _Hold your warm and tender body close to mine_."

His breath stirred the fine hairs at her temple, as he sang words of silk in a voice that pooled renewed heat low in her belly.

" _Hear the whisper of the raindrops blow soft against my window._

 _And m_ _ake believe you love me_..."

He kissed her, his hand stroking warm, bare skin- he couldn't seem to stop touching her.

She ignored any hidden meaning behind these particular lyrics. This was no declaration of his feelings.

"That's an old love song, isn't it? Didn't Kris Allen sing that?"

"For the Good Times, yes. But it was Kris Kristofferson. He wrote it. You are confusing him with that singer from American Idol."

She looked at him with amusement. "You were a fan of American Idol?"

"A fan? Hardly. Sometimes it was the only thing the others wanted to watch."

"What others?"

"Smith's Grove."

"Oh." She propped herself on one elbow and peered at him. "You had to share a TV with the other inmates?" she asked in disbelief.

"Mm. It was considered therapy to interact with them instead of hiding in our rooms.

"Those they could trust to play well with others," he added.

"Did it work?"

He shrugged and pulled her back into his arms, one hand creeping out to cup her breast. "Not very well. Most were afraid of me, and I more often than not, kept to myself, especially when the fights broke out."

"Fights? You got beat up over a television show?"

"Hardly that dire, but I sometimes had to defend _my_ choice of program."

" _You_ got physical with...with them?"

"Physical? No. Stacking the deck in my favor? You bet. Aside from television, there wasn't a whole lot else going on in there."

"How?"

"With a deck of cards and some sleight of hand. At least I did until they caught on to me."

"What happened then?"

"A dearth of PBS concert series, and too much American Idol. A majority rule, I believe is how they referred to it," he sneered.

"So in those three years you learned how to play nice?"

His look was sly. "I'm here now, aren't I?"

She sighed heavily. "You scare me sometimes. You know that, Girard?"

His fingers traced a tender path across her collarbones. "My face is the only thing that could possibly frighten you, Christine. I am entirely harmless."

"Yeah, right," she muttered. "Anyway, it was lovely, Erik." She ran her fingers lightly over his bare chest. "You're a closet romantic, I think, and a hellava lover. Not bad for a benafriend. We can meet like this every morning or afternoon when we're both off. If you want to, that is, and by the time Min's bus gets in... we'll go right back to prim and proper." She snapped her fingers. "Just like that!"

And just like that, she callously collapsed his beautiful future, blowing it away in a handful of breezy words.

"No one needs to know about our little arrangement. Least of all my daughter. Why complicate things?" she said sleepily.

He dislodged her abruptly from his shoulder, his dream of a rightful place with Christine, as her husband, nothing but that. A ludicrous dream. The accompanying sharp ache, learning that he was a convenience for her and nothing more, centered itself behind his breastbone. In a carefully neutral voice, with a side helping of frost, "That is all I am to you? An added benefit?"

Too late, she heard the growing hurt and disillusionment in his tone.

"Um... _yes_?" she squeaked.

* * *

 **Next Chapter- That pesky L word. Knock knock, again. Christine spills.**


	19. Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be!

Erik sat up hurriedly and left the bed, slipping into his trousers a lot quicker than he had left them.

"Where are you going?" She watched him from her nest of blankets, frowning at his sudden absence. They had been warm and cozy, and his departure from post-coital happy to wham-bam-thank you-ma'am, didn't make sense. Not for a man who had seemed very willing to remain in bed, clinging to her like a life-line.

Okay, _maybe_ she could have been a little less blunt about their keeping a low profile, but no one had mentioned a forever after, least of all her with her abysmal track record.

He hadn't either. Or had he?

Erik searched grim mouthed for his shirt, and finding it half-way under the bed where Christine had tossed it, snatched it up before turning to her. His eyes were helplessly drawn to her still flushed breasts, the rosy tips seeming to stare at him, enticing him back into bed. He shook his head at the vision, odd even for him. Christine yanked the sheet up in front of her, hiding them from his view.

"I asked you a question, Erik," she said quietly, slightly miffed by his continued silence.

"I heard you," he muttered, putting on his shirt and attempting to button it quickly, his agitation making that next to impossible.

"Then answer it, please."

"This was just a quickie, wasn't it? Something to take away your itch, so why linger if it means nothing more than that?" He savagely ripped at his buttons, shoving them through the wrong holes, and Christine heard one snap loose and ping its way across the floor.

"That's not true!" she cried, stung by his accusation. "Look...c-can't we talk about this?"

"It's getting late and I have to work." He hurriedly shoved his shirttail in his trousers, his movements choppy and abrupt. "Besides... discuss _what,_ exactly? You have already kindly pointed out that this is merely a convenience. In the grand scheme of things, I matter very little to you."

"I never said you meant nothing to me!" she protested, nettled by his blossoming anger. "It was wonderful. _You_ were wonderful." She slipped out of bed, pulling and tugging the sheet with her, struggling to wrap it around her body. It looked so easy in the movies, she thought sourly. But then, the idiots weren't dealing with king sized sheets. She stared hard at his bent back. "Or was I wrong about the wonderful part?"

He sat on the edge of the bed and shoved his feet into socks and boots, refusing to look at her. "You weren't wrong, but only one of us is willing to invest in a real relationship. For that reason, I have no intention of sneaking around this apartment like we have a dirty little secret and life goes on as usual! Which happens to be _your_ original objection if I remember correctly."

"Why shouldn't life go on as usual? The only thing different _is_ the sex! What's wrong with indulging on the sly?" She threw her hands up, and nearly lost her sheet. Grabbing it, she wound it toga style around herself and turned on him. "Stop acting like I stepped on your damned puppy, Girard!"

"No, but you succeeded in stepping all over my expectations!" he snarled.

"Wait. Wait for it! I thought that's what _I'm_ supposed to say! The man loves 'em and leaves 'em, and the woman throws a shoe at his head as he walks out the door!"

Erik stood up and proceeded to stare her down- and was doing a damned fine job of it. "Don't worry, de Chagny. Mine are secure on my big feet. You are perfectly safe," he sneered.

"What do you want? Commitment? A promise? Well, guess what? I'm fresh out of those! I can't afford to keep doing this! Every commitment to some man I ever made was tossed back in my face!" she cried, hastily swiping at her snarled hair, only minutes after he had lovingly run his fingers through it.

"Unlike you, I can afford anything! I have nothing to lose and _everything_ to gain."

"Yes. Take it, use it, and leave it behind when you're good and ready!"

"And if I walked out that door now, Christine, and didn't return, would it feel any better to you if we were simply _friends_?"

 _Better? I would be desolate. Wiped out. Devoured by grief._ Still, she willfully ignored the truth and raised a badly quivering chin. "What makes you think you're any different?"

"Because I am the one who desires above all else to commit to you, yet you tar me with the very same brush as you do them!" he snapped. Devoting himself to Christine had been his secret longing for months, and to find that she was more than happy to eschew any devotion for him, left Erik mourning its loss.

His heartache flared to life again.

No. Not now. Oh no, not now... his anger had center stage. "You see me as good for a brief tumble when the urge strikes you, but not much else, don't you? I suppose I could attempt to convince you otherwise, but I would be wasting my breath, wouldn't I? Too damned ugly for that." This last he threw over his shoulder as he left the bedroom.

"You're not ugly," Christine said weakly, remembering all too well, the sight of his ruined face.

"Forgive me if I don't believe you. I _live_ with this," he answered coldly, his hand unfurling alongside the mask. "My own mother couldn't do the decent thing and love me in spite of it! Why would I blindly assume you would?"

She trailed after him in confusion, getting tangled up in her sheet on the way. "No one in this room ever mentioned the L word. I'm very fond of you, I really am, b-but I'm not ready for another serious relationship at the moment."

"I can see that," growling a reply, but doing a thoroughly lousy job of hiding his hurt. "Ride 'em and hide 'em de Chagny!"

"So damned smart, aren't you, Erik? You have no right to say that to me!" she answered, a slight wobble to her voice.

"Oh? Who wants to meet in the bedroom after the bus leaves the curb? Who wants to deny anything going on other than passing the potatoes at dinner?"

"You mean more to me than that," she whispered.

"Prove it then," he said quietly.

" _You_ prove it! I have yet to hear any declaration of undying love from your mouth!"

"I love you," he answered promptly, the blankness of his face in direct contrast to eyes alight with fear and that damned hope that kept rearing its nasty head. "I have for months."

He waited.

The silence was nearly complete, save for the tap, tap, tap of sleet at the window, the sound lending itself to warmth and intimacy while they were sheltered in Erik's bed. To Christine it now sounded hollow and impatient. Cold. Wintry. She opened her mouth to tell him how much she... how very much she...

...and closed it.

"No more than I expected," he said finally, his disappointment in her, a sharp bone in his throat. And it was damned near choking him. Erik knelt on the floor and snapped the last piece of laminate into place, the sound distinct and impersonal. Final. He rose to his feet, swaying slightly. "I understand all too well, Christine. Good enough to fuck you, but not good enough for you to claim as your own."

She sucked in a shocked breath, realizing just how badly she had hurt him. His careful use of language around her was strikingly absent, the coarse four letter word sounding all wrong coming from his mouth.

Her introverted concert pianist turned introverted rocker dude.

Instead of driving him to drink and despair, she was driving him to crude and vulgar.

Christine stood awkwardly in the middle of the floor, a welter of simmering anger and tenderness for him. "This makes no sense!" forcing words out of a throat aching with unshed tears. "If I hadn't kissed you, we'd still be enjoying our friendship."

His laugh was humorless. "Yes, well that's what happens when you rattle the freak's cage," Erik returned bitterly, his eyes suddenly weary. "I'm done here," and it was said with such icy finality, that she felt a thrill of fear that he meant through with her...with Min.

As in... _Oh, would you look at the time? Must run. Nice seeing you again. Stay in touch._

Erik gestured to her state of undress. "Better get some clothes on before someone finds out what you've been up to with your _friend,_ and the status quo is ruined for you."

Before she could think of a satisfying comeback, he'd grabbed his jacket and was out the door.

"You're not a freak," she said to the empty apartment, wondering glumly if he realized he was wearing his paint splattered trousers to work.

Her watered gaze fell on the fortune cat which sat forlornly on the now finished floor, and for one crazy moment looking at its raised paw, she was certain it was making a rude gesture at her. "Well, you're no better, you stupid cat! If this is your idea of luck and happiness, you need to find yourself a new moniker," she growled, not worried in the least that she was talking to a piece of plastic. "How does Devil Puss, the Feline From Hell sound?" She cocked her head at the cheap figurine and stuck a hand on her hip. "Oh? Don't like it? How 'bout Kitty, the Bad Karma Cat? No to that too? My, my. How fussy."

She shoved wildly at her hair, and looked at the limp white bags holding their lunch, now cold and unappetizing. She trudged into the living room, tripping on her super sized toga, and sank down on the couch feeling weepy and sad, as though she had just lost her best friend.

She had.

Christine rested her chin in one cupped hand. "You're nutters, girl. He ever goes back to the Happy Home, you're hitchin' a ride with him."

What the hell just happened here?

 _He's in love with you._

It _had_ been wonderful. She hadn't lied to him about that. She had felt a strange mixture of excitement and comfort in his arms.

 _You belonged there._

She sighed, ignoring that niggling voice which seemed to become more strident every time she was near him.

Erik wasn't a neophyte when it came to sex. Sex being the operative word here. But he was a virtual stranger to the warmth engendered between two people _after_ such a private moment. It had been more than obvious to Christine that he loved the sex, but also appreciated its aftermath...the cuddles and kisses. And why wouldn't he? He had probably gone through life with a decided lack of hugs and kisses, platonic or otherwise, except for his sister. That needy little boy was still somewhere inside him, wanting only to be hugged. Held close. His mother had turned away from him shortly after his birth, and Erik had then fought for every crumb of affection she threw his way. He had received very little for his efforts, and had decided to garner _any_ sort of notice, even the bad.

Carla wasn't the warmest person in the world, only giving when she got. The woman was a man-eater, turning her back on the one she purported to love when he could no longer pay her way or get her singing roles. Other women? According to Erik, there hadn't been anyone for five years. He had existed in an atmosphere of easy loving and groupies hanging around the stage door, and she was well aware of what went on backstage. Perhaps after three years of having his head examined everyday- poked and prodded by shrinks to share with them every thought, mundane or otherwise in his head, he had simply kept his distance from people. Maybe she would never know. They weren't exactly chummy at the moment.

But she had considered him worldly enough to have an arrangement that benefited them both. However, aside from the pleasure she had received in his arms, one thing stood out very clear. He was not as experienced as she would have expected given his age and line of work.

Raoul had been a more practiced lover than Erik, but he had mentally drifted away from her shortly after sex. He was never one to linger in their marriage bed, always in a hurry to see what was shakin' in the natural world. His steadily growing disinterest in his wife and child had eventually led to their estrangement and divorce. She hadn't wondered much about his fidelity though- his nose was usually to be found in a book, which canceled out his use of other body parts where strange women were concerned.

Nadir was handsome, had been fun, good for some laughs, but for a man ten years her senior, had the depth and personality of a sixteen year old boy. She had found that out too late.

Which brought her back to Erik. He treated her with a delicacy that made her feel cherished. What's more, he wanted the same things she did... the sweetest part of their lovemaking, which for her was the affinity and warm affection afterward. She had felt drowsy and replete in his arms. He had made her feel loved. So loved. No man had ever done that before. She had always been the means to an end, not the journey itself.

He had sung to her! Post-coital. What man does that?

His eagerness to please her, to take care of her needs...

Christine found that she wanted to take care of him as well. Needs? The man had a wheelbarrow load of 'em. But she didn't want to admit to anything deeper than affection for him. All right. _A lot_ of affection for him. She didn't want to tempt fate and set into motion anything which would later leave her hurt and bleeding. After all, Erik had developed a reputation for pulling up stakes just as suddenly as he put them down.

Chances were good that he might just do it again.

Regardless, she had succeeded in chasing him off anyway, so it didn't seem to matter what she did or didn't do.

Said or didn't say.

"I want to pretend, Erik. What's wrong with that?" she muttered to the horribly empty room.

"What's wrong with that?" she repeated dully.

She had wanted nothing more than to stay there in bed with him until hunger drove her out of it. She had felt the urge to simply hold him, running her hands over that thin body again and again. To touch him with no thoughts of anything else. Just simple touch.

Well, okay. A few kisses too.

Her toes curled as she recalled his mouth and questing fingers- relived the moment he entered her, filling all of the emptiness she had carried around inside of her for, well...forever.

Out of bed, he was just as interesting. An odd blending of quirky and logical; a highly intelligent man with a genius for music, and an out of this world voice. He made her laugh, and with all due consideration, that was a very important quality in her opinion. Yet there was so much more to him. She wanted him around. If she were completely honest with herself, aside from her daughter, Erik was the best thing that ever happened to her, but to admit to deeper feelings for him now, and then have him at some point walk out the door for good, would be devastating.

 _You're head over heels in love with him._

"Shut. Up."

That interior voice made her uneasy.

Hell.

It terrified her.

The L word. He loved her. Christine's sigh was ragged. She didn't want to be hard and bitter. Her mind and heart shied away from putting a pipe dream in Erik's capable hands. She snorted. Why ruin a beautiful friendship?

"You already have," she whispered.

Even in an age when daily life could become a quagmire of doubt and suspicion, she longed for that one man to make her heart race. One that was the sticking kind through the hard times and the good. Someone for her daughter to look up to.

And her roommate met all of that criteria.

Only not yet.

Not yet.

Someday.

 _Coward._

She blew a stray curl out of her face.

"Damn you, Erik."

* * *

Christine set her daughter's plate in front of her, and Min made a sour face. "I don't want fish. I hate fish," she complained, sitting back and crossing her arms over her thin chest, her mouth mutinous.

"Tough, young lady. Eat it anyway," her mother replied shortly, sitting down across from her with her own plate.

"And I _hate_ broccoli!" Min added, her fork stabbing away at a piece of the offending veggie.

"Since when? You always liked it before."

"Well, I don't now."

"Eat your dinner or no TV. That's a promise, Min."

The little girl speared a tiny piece of fish, buried it under some baked potato, and added a broccoli floret. She stuck it in her mouth and followed it with a slurp of milk. "Better?" she asked her mother.

"Yep."

"Can I be excused?"

"Nope."

"Shit," Min muttered beneath her breath, and wearing a tortured look, spooned up more of everything and stuck it in her mouth.

"How would you like some Dove for dessert?"

"Dove chocolate bar or that one with a caramel swirl?"

"No. I was thinking more like Dove beauty bar with a swirl of Moroccan oil."

Min giggled. "Soap? You're funny, Mom."

"You're not. I don't want to hear that word leaving _your_ lips until you're twenty-one."

"You say it," the girl responded sullenly.

"What's up with you today, Min? School not go well?"

"It was okay."

"Then what is it?"

Min shook her head, refusing to look at her.

"Hey! Come on, girlfriend. Share with your old mother. What's up?"

"Where's Erik?"

Ah. Already it was working on her daughter. The very thing Christine had feared happening, was taking a toll on her little girl. Erik was distancing himself from them since that afternoon. That wonderful, exciting, exhilarating afternoon when...

 _Stop._

Their argument was over a week ago. They had seen very little of him since then. Out the door early, and home when they were in bed. Just like when he first moved in with them. The Invisible Man. She would listen wide eyed as he went furtively from kitchen to bathroom to bedroom. Imagining his lanky body moving with such beautiful fluidity. She would sigh in harsh disappointment then, with only the phantom press of his cool hands upon her flushed skin, and slip easily into dreams of Erik like some horny teenager.

One night, he hadn't even bothered coming home. Her mind refused to dwell on where he was spending the bulk of his time, and she dreaded the day he came to her and told her he was moving out. For that was what Erik would do. He would never force them to leave. She knew him well enough by now to recognize a decent man when she saw one.

An honorable man.

Of course he was. A man who had been put through a ringer for most of his life, yet still had the capacity to love.

Christine took another bite of fish and chewed slowly, a smile making its way across her face like the sun coming out after a hard rain. She had already done handsome. Twice. Handsome hadn't offered to fix dinner after a long day on her feet. Nor did it make Min breakfast or see her off to school, and it certainly didn't make Christine laugh at lame jokes of which Erik seemed to have an endless supply.

Handsome didn't make her want to sit through a really bad movie just so she could snuggle companionably against his side, their back and forth silly commentary on the show, offering her a much better time than she could remember having in a long while.

And handsome sure as hell didn't make her mouth dry with desire.

But Erik did.

"... with us to buy a tree?

"Mom?"

"Huh?" She looked up, forced out of her thoughts, for she was sure there was an epiphany there somewhere. Christine stared unseeingly at her daughter just as there came a flurry of light taps at the door.

Min jumped up and ran to answer it. "Bet it's Erik!"

"Knocking on his own door?"

"He forgot his key."

"So naïve," Christine lamented. "Ask who it is before you open it."

Obeying her mother, she dutifully requested a name, and both ladies were shocked when a hearty voice replied, "Min! It's Nadir. How are you?"

"Shit," mother and daughter said in unison.

* * *

"Please, Christine! Just allow me to beg your forgiveness so I may rest easy again."

"Find a couple of sleeping pills, pop them in your mouth and swallow," she mocked rudely. "Or get yourself another tart to replace the one you just dumped!"

"One moment of your time is all I ask."

He listened uneasily as Christine curtly ordered her daughter away from the door, before she turned back to it and sent him to the devil.

"Go to Hell, Khan!"

"The flames of hellfire shall consume me, dear lady for what I did to you and...and to your daughter, but you must believe me. Everything I have just related to you is the truth. Allah strike me dead if I am lying!"

"Allah, huh?" she coldly chuckled. "Let's see if Allah can open this door for you. He'll have to blow it off the hinges!"

Nadir shivered in the cold hallway, still having trouble picturing what he had just left to where he stood now. He had traded heat... radiant and benevolent, for this glacial chill, the wind hitting and cutting with a rawness that penetrated several layers of clothing with icy fingers that bit and stung.

And that was only Christine's attitude.

He wasn't even counting the cold of a New York City winter.

"Well, well. Nadir Khan as I live and breathe. What ripped you from the bosom of swaying palms and salsa music for a taste of how the rest of us live?"

Nadir whipped around at the dulcet sound of perfect tone and diction. "Erik! This is wonderful," he answered weakly, the tall thin figure looming in the dimness of the hallway. Those damned eyes were the same...yellow and direct.

Never blinking.

Watchful as hell.

"Is it?"

And there was the crux of the matter. The very man he came to warn Christine about, was standing in front of him looking decidedly unhappy. Nadir had been pleading with her for the last ten minutes to let him in, only to be told repeatedly it was out of the question.

As in...

"No way am I going to let _you_ back in this apartment after what you did to me! You can go boink a flying donut!"

"All right. Fine. Christine...how much do you know about Erik?"

"I have no intention of discussing him with you. _Ever._ "

"Not even if I told you the truth about him?"

"Why doesn't it surprise me that you're not much better at the friend business than you were with me?"

"I deserve that, but I can explain why I am here. Please. May I come in?"

Christine leaned against the door. "I'll give you this, Nadir...you have more balls than sense coming anywhere around me again! And for your information, you and Erik aren't even in the same league. He's miles ahead of you in everything that counts.

"And I do mean _everything_!"

"See here, Christine! Ten minutes of your time is all I ask."

"Go away."

"Erik Girard killed a man five years ago and was committed to a mental institution for three of those years," the words tumbling out of his mouth as he stood in the dingy hall.

"No kidding," Christine said in a bored tone.

"Erik was troubled in his youth, and wasn't above violence. He could still be dangerous if pushed into it."

She snorted. "You're the dangerous one, Khan."

His sense of self-righteousness instantly deflated. "He told you, didn't he?"

"Yes," she replied smugly.

"That mask of his is hiding-"

"All of it."

Nadir was indeed shocked to know that Christine was aware of Erik's every fault and sin, _and_ deformity, but it didn't matter to her. Khan's own sins however...

He was now confronted with his old friend, after he had exposed Erik's past to Christine. He took a deep breath, and prepared to feel Girard's wrath. "I told Christine what happened five years ago."

"Well, isn't that a coincidence?" Erik said mildly. "So did I."

Khan shrugged. "Yes, and I think she enjoyed informing me of that very thing."

Erik regarded him with gimlet eyes and nodded toward the door. "Won't let you in?"

Nadir shook his head and Erik stepped up to the door. "It's Erik, Christine. I'm coming in," and Khan rolled his eyes heavenward when he heard a squeal of happiness from Min on the other side of the door as it opened.

" _He's_ not allowed!" Christine snarled, as Nadir attempted to step inside.

"Yes, he is," Erik said firmly as he hugged an excited Min who had both arms slung around his waist.

"Oh, so I have no say in this, Girard?"

"Not even a little curious as to why he's here?"

"I _know_ why he's here," she declared, as she turned her back on the two men and started clearing off the table, her movements abrupt and angry. "He's already said his piece, and most of it concerned you! I don't want to hear anymore."

Christine paused as she lifted Min's plate only to find the underside caked with the girl's dinner, having mashed broccoli and fish into a paste while her mother sat absorbed in her thoughts. She cast a darkling look her daughter's way, hoping Min would ask for dessert- and smiled evilly.

Nadir, seeing that look, misinterpreted it, and dropped his eyes from hers. This had been an insane idea.

Erik crossed his arms over his chest and flatly regarded a tongue-tied Nadir with appraising eyes. "Well? You're in, and now you have nothing to say?"

Khan watched as Min stood beside Erik keeping one hand tucked into his, staring daggers at Nadir. The adoring look she then gave the masked man told the tale. "I wanted to apologize for my behavior to Christine and her little girl. I will never forgive myself for treating them so poorly."

Erik nodded at the woman in question. "Tell her, Khan, not me."

Christine whirled around before Nadir could get the words out of his mouth. "You have a lot of nerve coming here after what you did! It's too little...and way too late."

He hung his head, thinking fast. He didn't really expect Christine to forgive him that easily, but perhaps in time? He was done with Florida, having decided to remain in the city and find acting work- maybe even try the theatre. After all, he'd had far more success here than anywhere else. He could get a small loan from Erik to tide him over until something came up. His eyes swept the apartment noting the improvements, until they halted on his picture tacked to the wall.

His _perforated_ picture. She had mutilated him, making him resemble a man riddled with disease; one that also caused teeth to fall out. He looked at Christine, his eyes widening as she stared back at him with a grim smile, then contentedly eyed his defaced picture.

"I think it makes you look so distinguished. Don't you?"

"You are a violent woman," he stated calmly, not wishing to incur more of her wrath.

She shrugged. "Was. Past tense. We don't use you for target practice anymore. I just never got rid of it. Hey! I know! You can have it back."

"No, no. I would not dream of taking away a source of enjoyment for you," he answered politely.

"Not just me. Min, and even Erik liked a good game of darts."

Nadir glanced quickly at his friend, who shrugged negligently. He would corner Erik at LipSync and hit him up there. Coming anywhere near Christine or her daughter could be dangerous to his health. Even though he had attempted to apprise Christine of Erik's past history, he had only done it from a sense of duty. As lagging as it had been.

"I am sorry, Christine," Nadir said humbly. "Can you forgive me?"

"No. Now if you don't mind..." She opened the door. "Have a completely lousy life," and stared pointedly at him then at the door. "And that's more than you offered me," but to her consternation, the words were hollow and merely stated by rote, as if it was expected of her by everyone in the room. There was no real heat behind her anger anymore, and _t_ _hat_ was food for thought. She took a deep breath, feeling a liberating relief that she had let go of any and all emotions concerning Nadir Khan.

She still didn't like him though.

He had betrayed his friendship with Erik.

"Time to go, Khan," Girard informed him, having no intention of leaving him alone anywhere near Christine.

Just in case.

"Goodbye," Nadir said, including all three of them, and soon found himself back in the hallway, the door firmly closed and bolted against him.

"Why did you let him in?" she asked, her voice accusing. "He really came here to inform me of your less than stellar past. Still think it was a good idea?"

"Closure," Erik returned evenly. "Isn't that the word most people indiscriminately bandy about? Don't you feel a little better now, having unloaded some of your considerable anger on him? He deserved it."

Christine nodded after a moment. "You know something? I _do_ feel a little better having faced him. What I don't understand, is why you seem to have forgiven him."

"Ah. You think I should have put him in his place for what he did to me? What if I told you that he was the first person to ever take my side when I was being terrorized and hounded in school? And what if I told you that he made a bad time bearable, and that was _after_ he saw my face? People are not painted in such stark colors, Christine. There are nuances of light and dark in everyone."

"Then I would have to say that I'm grateful to him also. For _that,_ if nothing else. I don't like to think of you alone and being treated badly, no matter how long ago it's been," she said softly, looking with hopeful eyes at Erik, and ignoring the prancing elephant in the room. "This is a nice surprise."

"I came back for a shower and change of clothes."

She searched his eyes. "You look tired."

"Busy day."

"And nights too?" to which he said nothing.

"Are you hungry?"

"No."

"Have some, Erik. It's good for you!" Min stated, coaxing him to stay. "There's broccoli too. Yum!"

"Do you recommend it, Araminta?"

"Uh huh," the girl said eagerly.

"Then you may have mine," he smiled, tugging gently on her hair.

"Min, you have homework."

"Can I have a cookie?"

"No."

"I ate my-" Min stared at the plate her mother held up for her inspection.

"You weren't about to tell me that you ate your dinner like a good little girl, were you?" Christine asked smoothly. "Not when it's stuck under the plate rim. Next time, eat your food instead of the smash and hide, then we'll discuss dessert. Now run along.

"Oh, and wash your hands," she added.

The girl sighed dramatically. "No cookie for you, so get lost, Min. Mother wants to talk to Erik, Min," she intoned, already leaving the kitchen.

"Such a smart girl I have," Christine teased, and turned to Erik. "Well. _Can_ we talk?"

"About what?" he asked softly.

"Why you've been making yourself scarce."

"Working."

"Hope Abba's paying you well, cause you're not getting much down time."

Erik shrugged. "Under the circumstances, I thought it might be best."

"In spite of the circumstances, we'd like to see a little more of you."

"I have to get going," he said, backing away from her.

"Sure, but save me a couple of minutes, 'kay? And Erik? There's a new bottle of sinus pills on the top shelf in the medicine cabinet. I noticed you took the last two yesterday morning."

He paused, and said softly, "How did you know?"

"I've learned to read your eyes and mouth for the signs- the way you carry yourself. How'd I do?"

He could only nod, the pain in his head nothing compared to the awful ache in his chest that he'd carried around for more than a week.

"How bad?"

"I've had worse," he admitted. "Why, Christine?"

She shrugged and said quietly, "That's what f-friends do, Erik. Worry about each other.

"Like I worry about you."

He could only manage another nod before leaving her, and she began washing the dishes, her thoughts jamming up behind a virtual dam of ice, fighting to get free and make sense of what she was feeling at this very minute. She kept an ear tuned to his movements, not about to let him sneak off.

Twenty minutes later, Erik appeared in the kitchen, smelling of freshly showered man and Paco Rabanne. Her nostrils quivered as she sidled closer to him, wondering if it would be okay to give him a hug. One little kiss? Just a tiny peck on the cheek. She observed his stiff bearing and grim mouth, deciding it would be the wrong thing to do. The thought left her depressed.

She opened her mouth, not sure what was about to spew out of it, when there was a knock on the door, followed by a cheerful voice. "Woman of the house! I have those items you requested for a. certain. _somebody_."

Christine ran a frustrated hand through her hair. "Geez, when it rains, it friggin' pours," she muttered, and with an apologetic glance at Erik, went to the door, glancing back over her shoulder at him. "Stay...please," she entreated before opening it. Louise bustled in, looking at her friend then at the tall figure standing in the middle of the kitchen.

"Hello, sweetlings! It's a good thing you two are staying in where it's warm. It's colder than a witch's tits out there tonight," Sorelli informed them cheerfully.

Erik grabbed his leather jacket off of the wall peg. "I'm afraid I'll have to test those mammary glands for myself, Louise. I have to work," nodding at the two women as he left, leaving a thoroughly disheartened Christine behind.

Louise stared at the closed door, head canted to one side. "You know, that man is a cutie. How can you stand all that maleness and not want some of it?"

"I had some of it."

" _What_?"

She jerked a thumb at the door. "Him. Had."

"Erik?"

"You see any other _him_ around here, Louise?"

"Okayyy. I'm dying to ask and it looks like you're willing to spill, but first things first. Where's puddin'?"

"In our room doing her homework," Christine said listlessly.

"Good. Look at how adorable this is," and pulled a pink tutu and matching ballet slippers out of the shopping bag. "She's going to be one excited little girl Christmas morning."

"Very," Christine said obligingly.

"Love your enthusiasm."

"Yeah, it's great. I'm pleased."

Louise snapped her fingers under her friend's nose. "Hello, hello, hello! Ground control to Major Tom! Who are you, and what have you done with my friend?"

"Got a few hours?"

"Got any of that Burgundy?"

"Yeah. A whole bottle."

"Then I got the time," Sorelli replied, shrugging out of her coat and briskly rubbing her hands. "Let's start with the sex."

* * *

"Everything went wrong," Christine related to her friend, twirling her wine glass before taking a drink. "He hasn't been home early for over a week; today is the first time and he sure didn't linger. Even when I asked him to. Hell, one night he never bothered coming home at all! He even let Nadir into the apartment against my wishes!"

Sorelli sat up, ears perked like a hound scenting game. "Nadir? What the hell is _he_ doing in this woeful tale of lust in the afternoon on the new floor?"

"Leave it to you to make light of my problems," she muttered into her wine. "And we didn't have sex on the new floor! We're not animals. It started there and we took it to his bed."

"I'm not making light of your problems." She looked at her friend's glum face. "Come on, Chrissie, it's not the end of the world. Just a few more questions and I'm satisfied."

"I doubt it," Christine sniffed.

"Did he take off that mask?"

"No."

"So you still have no idea what he looks like?"

"Nope," she lied. Regardless of their cooled relationship, she would allow no one to know what lay behind the mask unless Erik chose to tell them.

"Okay. Last question. _And_ the most important. Is he hung like a stallion?"

Christine dribbled wine out her mouth. "I really don't know you, Louise," she sputtered in disgust, jumping up for a paper towel.

"Well?"

She wiped her chin and the table. "That's none of your damned business!"

"That's all right. I got my answer."

"What do you mean?"

"You're not braggin' so I'll just suppose..." Sorelli trailed off, glancing sympathetically at Christine.

"Erik is very well endowed for your information! Why... he puts them all-" She buttoned her lip when Louise shot her a look of triumph.

"In theatre parlance...gotcha!"

"You're mental," Christine replied tiredly, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

"Yeah, but you still love me. Now, what about Nadir?"

Christine shot straight up from her slouch. "Hey! I'm not going to sit here and compare men for your enjoyment! You sure do-"

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa!_ I meant...what about Nadir _showing_ up today, you silly twit!"

Christine pursed her lips and blew out a frustrated breath, "Oh. Well, he says he came by to apologize for being such a shitheel, but I think he was really here to squeal on his best friend. Ha! Some friend. Erik would never do that to him. He has loads of character."

"He came all the way from sunny Florida to throw himself at your feet? Sounds like Nadir has some character as well."

"Nadir _is_ a character, Louise. Big difference."

"Yeah...the louse! You'd never rat me out, would you, Christine?"

"I would for the highest price."

"You're a right bitch. So what was he squealing about?"

Christine shrugged, keeping mum about Erik's past. It was the least she could do for him. "Nothing much," she said vaguely. "He um...wanted to apologize for being such a loser."

Louise looked sharply at her. "That's it? He came all the way from Miami to apologize, when he couldn't be bothered six months ago?"

"Yeah, go figure," she replied weakly. "He mumbled he was sorry and left. I tried to talk to Erik and _he_ left. Enter Louise and I can't _make_ her leave."

"So how was the sex?"

"You said we were done with the tell-all, Sorelli."

Louise snorted. "You didn't _tell_ me anything, just how you went from point A to point B."

She opened her mouth to protest the questions, then thought better of it. The wine was loosening her tongue a little, but she would be careful. Loose lips sink ships. She giggled at the notion.

"What's so funny?" Louise asked, eying her sharply.

Christine topped off her wine glass. "Do you know that loose lips can sink a ship?"

"Nah, but I know an iceberg will." She held out her glass for a toast. "Here's to Leonardo DiCaprio," and ended with a tiny belch.

Christine touched her glass to Louise's. "To Leonardo," they intoned solemnly and drank. Christine stared speculatively at Sorelli. "You're not getting anything more. It's between Erik and me."

"Yeah, it was," her friend laughed. "Do you know, you people could star in your very own soap opera? Erik and Carla, you and Nadir...you and Erik. Jesus, I get dizzy just thinking about it."

"You're always dizzy...I'm surprised you can actually make it across a stage without landing in the orchestra pit," Christine told her on a hiccup. "Bing budda boom! And down Twinkle Toes goes."

Secretly Christine wondered what Sorelli would say if she were to add Nadir and Jeannette to their happy little group, and chuckled at the thought.

"So anyway, how was it?" Ignoring Christine's jeering laughter, she hastened to add, "Just a short yea or nay will do."

"Didn't you hear me, Louise?"

"That miserable, huh?"

And waited.

Christine didn't disappoint.

"Miserable? It was... it was a big yea. _He_ was wonderful," she sighed.

Louise smiled in satisfaction. "Told you with a voice like that it would be good. Who made the first move?"

"I think he did, but I kissed him first."

"Then what? Afterward, did Erik jump up and run out the door?"

She shook her head. "We just laid there together afterward... he had his arms around me. I had mine around him. It was nice. I felt warm... safe." She glanced up at her friend, her face growing pink. "I know that sounds fluffy and too cute, but I did. Being there with him just felt so right, you know?"

"I know. So if everything felt good, what happened?"

"He said those three little words."

"Once again, doll?"

"No, you idiot! I love you."

"Before or after you two went toe to toe?" Louise sat forward crowding Christine.

"Hey, back off, you voyeur!"

Sorelli snorted. "A voyeur _watches,_ Chris. I was nowhere around when you and The Voice had your little love fest."

"Whatever. You get creepy when you scent something juicy."

"Answer the goddamned question!"

"After."

"What a guy! Well, why did you panic?"

"Raoul. Nadir. Eddie Bartholomew. Any of them ring a bell with you, Sorelli?"

"Raoul and Nadir do, but what's my old boyfriend got to do with you and your fear of getting dumped?"

"Eddie was _my_ boyfriend, Louise. He dumped me for you. Hearing any bells yet?"

"Ding. Dong. I forgot about that. Huh. You didn't speak to me for weeks. Thanks for reminding me again. Did I ever apologize for that?"

"Nope."

"Okay. Consider it done. All right, what happened with Erik?"

Christine took a sip of her wine, before upending the glass in one large swallow. "Oh, nothing much. Just stepped on his damned puppy."

"Come again? I didn't know he had a puppy." She glanced around for tiny yellow puddles, smelly little landmines, and squeaky toys which always managed to get stepped on at three in the morning, and saw nothing but pristine new floor. "Where's he keep it?"

"Not a real one, Sorelli. A metaphorical one. I meant his _expectations_. I stepped all over his emotions when I wanted to hide our...our afternoon delight."

"Well, why didn't you say so in the first place! You're hanging around Boy Genius too much and he's rubbing off on you." Louise took a sip of wine and sat back. "Was it?"

"Was it what?" Christine muttered into her glass.

"A delight?" Louise prompted.

"Oh, yes," she said wistfully. "He's...he was so ...it was...oh, Louise, I think I chased him right into that homewrecker's arms and I don't know what to do!"

"Miss him?"

"Yeah." Christine stuck a fist in her eye and knuckled it tiredly.

"Get jealous just thinking of him with Giudicelli?"

Christine nodded glumly.

"Want his kisses only?"

"What is this? An inquisition?"

"Just answer the question."

" _Your_ boyfriend is rubbing off on you!" Christine said. "Only Erik's," she agreed.

"His skin the only one you want next to yours?"

"The only one," she whispered.

"Congratulations, Christine Daae! I now pronounce you madly in love with Erik Girard."

"It's de Chagny! You know...the same as your on again, off again boyfriend. How many times must I remind you?"

"Don't change the subject, Christine. And for your information, it's on again. Boy and how!" she grinned. "Just answer the question!"

"I'm scared, Louise."

"Who the hell isn't? Guarantees of happiness don't come with a birth certificate, Chris. Answer me, please."

She slowly nodded her head. "I love him," she whispered. "Oh God, oh God, I love him and n-now I've lost him!"

"Admitting your deep affection is the first step," Louise soothed. "I'm so proud of you, pumpkin!"

"Haven't you been listening? It's too late," she moaned. "He's been dodging me all week. I sent him away and Carla the leetle lizard snapped him up. And she'll only make him miserable!" Christine repeatedly thunked her head on the table top. "I'm an idiot. Sweetest man in the world and I let him get away."

"Concussing yourself isn't going to help, so stop that." Louise put a finger to her mouth and stroked her upper lip. "Want him back?"

"How? I hardly see him anymore," Christine whined despondently. "Yes. Yes! I want him back," and added proudly, "I love him."

"All right. Good. Finally have some movement on your end."

"I know, I know. You've proved your point," Christine said morosely.

"Relax. Auntie Louise has an idea."

Christine eyed her friend with suspicion. "I'm not sure I like where this is heading."

"Trust me, you're going to love this!"

"I'm sure that I won't."

"Yeah, you will."

"No. No, I won't."

"Shut up and listen anyway."

And Christine was absolutely certain that Sorelli's last screw had come loose.

* * *

 **Next Chapter- Punk fairy... _what?_ Let's make a deal. Mon coeur. **


	20. If Music Be the Food of Love, Play On

**Gingersnaps44-** **I'm glad you like roller coasters ;)**

 **Guest-** **Bring on Carla; insensitive Christine will take. her. down.**

 **Squishmich-** **Yeah, I hear ya, but Erik's not supposed to be a music critic at LipSync. He's the grunt, the patrons pick the tunes, and to earn his next paycheck, he sings 'em, even if he feels nauseated by them. I've never seen the musical myself, but I do like Bono's Rise Above 1. I agree about Carla. She's so articulate ;) Yeah, those drum boys get it all. Erik, menacing? LOL. Where'd you ever get that idea? Yes. We have established that Christine is shy a few brain cells. See below.**

 **Swishy-Capes-** **See below.**

* * *

 **Well, y'all have spoken and it's nearly unanimous: Christine's an idiot.**

* * *

Mark Abba sat down behind his desk and eyed the two women across from him. "Pleasure, ladies. Now...to what do I owe this visit?"

Christine glanced at the ring leader of this little sortie, and Louise gave a tiny jerk of her chin, cutting her eyes toward Abba.

This was all Sorelli's fault.

No. It was _Auntie_ Louise's fault. Not to be confused with the machinations of an Auntie Mame, Christine had reasoned. Mame was much more tender-hearted than her hard-assed friend. This asinine plot to get Erik's attention and at the same time announce Christine's love for him loud and clear, was going to see her crash and burn. Badly. So naturally, her reaction had been, "You want me to do _what?"_

"You screwed up, Chris," Sorelli had replied, "but I know how to fix it, so just be quiet for a minute and hear me out!"

Against Christine's better judgment, she had done just that; listening to a woman who obviously had performed one too many grand jetes, and ended up on her head more than was good for her. A woman who had managed to put her own love-life on hold for two years, simply because she didn't want to cross the Atlantic.

With a last fuming look at her friend, she now turned back to LipSync's owner. "I um...was wondering if you could possibly, uh..." Her tongue was stuck uselessly to the roof of her mouth, not really knowing where to go with this. Christine rolled her eyes at Sorelli. _Help,_ she mouthed to the other woman.

Louise sat up straighter in her chair and dove in. "I'm sure you've heard of Billy Joel, Mr. Abba," she began crisply. "Well, Christine here, who happens to be an accomplished singer in her own right, performed in the piano bar where he worked. She's well known to several of the establishments in the city, particularly um... uh, O-One More for the Road on Selwyn Street," and winced when Christine kicked her nearest foot.

"One More for the Road?" He gave a short bark of laughter as he glanced down at some paperwork he wanted to finish. "That's nothing but a dive joint. Look here, Miss..." His impatience was starting to show. "Sorry, I forgot your name."

"Daae. Christine Daae, Mr. Abba. And this is..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. She's not Billy Joel, but she's one hell of a piano player."

"No," Christine said indignantly. "Louise Sorelli is a bunhead."

"A what?"

"A ballerina. You know...they always wear their hair-"

Abba stopped her. "Yeah. Got it. I don't need a dancer. I don't need a soprano. I got one of those, so if you don't mind-"

She found some much needed confidence and ditched the shallow end of the pool. "I have a proposition for you, Mr. Abba. It's for one night only and it doesn't involve payment of any kind or lip-syncing." Deep breath. "I want to sing with your band...w-what I mean is...your frontman."

"I don't take acts off the street. And there's no live singing except my band."

"Yes, I'm aware of that, but I hope to interest you in a surprise I'm planning for Erik."

"Erik? What's he got to do with this?"

"Nothing...yet. Like I said...I want to surprise him."

Against his will, Abba felt some interest. "How do I know you can sing?"

"Not a problem," and she stood up. "If I may?" and before he could say no, Christine began singing Same Old Love. Abba was impressed from the start. With no reference note, she did a fairly adequate job, only slightly raspy on delivery. Her vibrato was actually better than the original artist's, and her intonation was good for someone singing with no accompaniment, but as far as her style against Giudicelli's, Carla's won hands down. His soprano had more stage presence than the blonde.

He put up a hand. "That'll do."

"So will you at least think about it?" Christine asked, trying to gauge his reaction.

"You're not bad, Ms. Daae, but if I decide to allow this, I'll have to hear more of the whys. If I do, and that's a mighty big if... you're out and Carla's in." He leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head.

"I'm doing this for Erik, Mr. Abba. It has to be me or no one."

"Billy Joel, huh? Ever sing with him?" his curiosity piqued in spite of himself.

Christine decided to stick with the truth and shrugged. "I'd like to say yes, but...no, I never did. The only thing we had in common was the piano bar."

"What do I get out of it?" he asked baldly.

Louise spoke up. "More exposure for your club, for one thing. Not to mention, it'll make your lead vocalist very happy."

He glanced sharply at Christine. "Why's that? You two an item?"

"No. But I'd like to change that," she admitted.

Abba grunted something non-committal and settled his dark eyes on Louise, openly looking her over. "Where do you dance?"

Sorelli wasn't fooled by his perusal. "At the moment, the Lyceum."

"Ballerina, huh? Swan Lake and all those other morbidly tragic romances."

"Yeah. I cry tears of sorrow every time I dance."

"I like you," Abba pronounced.

"Already taken," Louise shot back.

Abba's eyes shifted over Christine's way, and she nervously cleared her throat. "Umm... _almost_ taken, smiling hopefully at him. "Uh, so you see, Mr. Abba, you can help with that."

"Mm," staring at her in thought. "How does singing help you cement a relationship with Girard?"

Christine's brow wrinkled in thought. "Well... some men are swayed by flattery or grovelling. Maybe even that old stand-by...through their stomachs. Not Erik. He lives and breathes music."

"Oh, it's true all right," Sorelli said with amusement. "The Voice isn't like most men. Christine singing for him will be the equivalent of a thick juicy steak, loaded baked potato _and_ three layer chocolate cake. So what do you say, Mr. Abba?"

"You kids in love? That what you're saying?" never minding that Erik was only a handful of years behind him.

Christine looked down at her hands. "Yes," she answered quietly.

"I'll be damned," and leaned back in his chair to consider things, pursing his lips in thought, before finally coming to a decision. "Okay, Christine...may I call you that?" and at her tentative nod, he slid open the middle drawer of his desk and took out a wad of papers. "Know what these are?" not expecting an answer. "They're my ticket to a club that'll put all of them to shame. But first I have to get your almost boyfriend to sign them. A two year contract will keep him here and I can make sure he doesn't take off as he's been known to do.

"Fame comes a knockin', and he goes a walkin'." His gaze was shrewd and direct. "You can help me with that, Christine."

She was already shaking her head. "'fraid not. I have no intention of strong-arming Erik into signing anything. If he wants to move on...then I won't stop him," but the other two clearly heard the quiver in her voice as she said it.

"You could at least talk to him. Put in a good word for me? Can't hurt."

"You're forgetting that Christine's presence onstage for one night, might just be the incentive to keep your frontman where you want him... indefinitely."

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right, but it doesn't necessarily mean he'd stay here. There's scouts from the other clubs approaching him on a regular basis. I figure it's only a matter of time 'til they offer him something he can't refuse."

"Then helping Christine now will go a long way in keeping him at LipSync." Louise pressed home her advantage. "Would you allow me to take a copy of the contract to Erik's lawyer?"

"Lawyer? Girard never mentioned having a lawyer."

Sorelli smiled, and to Mark Abba it was a little scary to see. His ex had smiled like that...pearly whites with blood on 'em. _His_ blood. Her lawyer too. Everyone had been smiling in that room except for him as he was taken to the cleaners in their divorce settlement. He suppressed a shudder. "I'm not keen on lawyers trotted out when _I'm_ the one supposedly granting the favor. "What's his name?"

"Philippe de Chagny. Perhaps you've heard of him? He's one of the best, and very fair-minded too."

Abba grunted. "A fair-minded lawyer? No such thing. De Chagny, huh? I know of a _Raoul_ de Chagny, but he's a zoologist."

At her ex-husband's name, Christine slid further back on her chair, having nearly fallen off of it. "How did you know R... um, this other g-guy?"

"He did a series of lectures on the uh... what was it? Uh, the...the... I know. The punk fairy armadillo. It was at the college where I worked."

" _Pink_ fairy armadillo," Christine corrected him.

Abba gave her a quizzical glance. "You know your armadillos."

"Yeah, it's one of those needless pieces of information taking up precious room in my head," Christine said off-hand. "You worked at a college? Doing what?"

He shrugged. "What else? Teaching music. When the program was phased out at the school, I took my nest egg and left it all behind. Bought this place."

Louise was still stuck on the pink fairy armadillo. "There's really an animal by that name?" she asked, looking from Abba to Christine, and when her friend nodded, Sorelli snorted. "Sounds more like something that should be dancing in The Nutcracker." She regarded him with a shade more respect. "You walked away from a teaching post to run a club where you have the last say in everything?"

He nodded, folding his arms across his chest. "And all the headaches that go with it, but yeah, that about covers it," he said with amusement.

Christine grinned. "Excellent move."

"I thought so. But now I've hit a slight road block. Girard is the best thing to happen at LipSync since Nick Jonas walked through the door last year."

"Was he a contestant?"

"No. He just wanted to watch others make asses out of themselves."

"Well, what's the answer, Mr. Abba? Copy of the contract so my mister can read it, or should we consider this a no?" Louise asked.

"I should say no, but I'm not out anything. Besides...this might be interesting. Hell, it might be _very_ interesting. So... let's get to the particulars."

He could be making a bitch of a decision, but it could also see Girard hanging around a little longer.

And besides...what's one more wannabe making an ass out of _herself_?

* * *

Nadir was waiting for him near the back door of the club as Erik exited the building. He was more than glad to see him, the piss poor weather seeming to only get colder as the night drew on.

"Another solid performance from you, my friend! More to the point, your rendition of I Believe was on everyone's tongue. How did it go? _Shattered dreams, worthless years. Here I am inside a hollow well,"_ Khan recited, his breath a white cloud in front of him.

"It is _shell_. A hollow shell, but you can stop now," Erik said irritably. "Why are you here?"

One look into the other man's weary eyes, and the Persian knew he might be leaving empty-handed. "I'm not going back to Miami, Erik. In fact, I have been seeking work, but it's hard going. I was wondering if you could spare me a few dollars to tide me over?" he asked hopefully, pitching his voice to not sound too needy. Too desperate.

Erik turned the collar of his jacket up against the biting wind. "What makes you think I have any to lend?"

"Because you have a job and I do not."

"How much do you need?"

Nadir didn't even think about it. "Fifty would be very helpful, and I will pay you back as soon as I can."

"Where are you staying?"

"The Apex."

Erik said nothing. It was a squalid hotel on Belmont where all sorts of clandestine activities took place. Nadir should fit right in.

The masked man seemed to be thinking, and Khan felt hopeful. "I can do that," he finally responded, and Nadir waited expectantly for Erik to hand over the fifty bills, "but first, you can help me, and pay off your debt at the same time."

"Doing what?" Nadir asked, his suspicion radar going up.

Before Erik could answer, the club door opened and Carla ermeged, wrapping a bright multi-colored scarf around her throat. "I was hoping I'd run into you on my way out. Want a ride anywhere?" she asked, sidling up to Erik as he stood on the sidewalk.

He had been set to take the bus over to Thirty-fourth Street, but time would be lost having to go back home first. "As a matter of fact, you can." He cut his eyes at a shivering Nadir and made short work of the introductions, Khan giving a start of surprise that this was Carla, the infamous ex-girlfriend.

Erik knew that Nadir recognized the name and didn't mince words. "I just happened to find Carla already employed here, but decided to stay in spite of it."

"Well, thanks a lot for your honesty, Erik," she said caustically. "I really appreciate it."

"You're welcome," he replied coolly. "Khan included in that ride?"

Giudicelli looked the other man over, liking what she was seeing. Dark and handsome. She could dig it. Except for his exceptionally red nose and shivering body. "Sure. Why not?"

Nadir's eyes roved over Carla, liking what _he_ was seeing. He had known about her abandonment of Erik years ago, but never met her. He could understand now why his friend had at one time been infatuated. Maybe he still was in some weird way- things between Erik and Christine a week ago had seemed awkward and tense. Something was up, for Girard's present mood was the take-no-prisoners variety.

Khan would have to watch his step around him.

Forcing his eyes away from the woman, he curiously regarded Erik. "Where are we going and what is it you require of me?"

"Not far, and you'll find out when we get there. I think you will enjoy this," he said with a cruel smile.

Nadir felt a slight unease seeing that bloodthirsty grin. "I am sure I will not," he mumbled, and decided it was in his best interests to not stick around. He glanced pointedly at his watch, and began backing away from Erik. "Look at the time! I just remembered a prior engagement, and I am going to be late as it is, so may I just-"

"Now, now, Khan. Not so fast. I help you. You help me. That is the American way," the masked man said firmly. Unequivocally.

"I wouldn't know about that," Nadir returned, but one look at Erik's blank face and narrowed eyes, stopped him from leaving. Girard required a favor from him, and it looked like he was going to deliver it.

Or else.

Erik glanced at Carla who was standing so close, he was certain they were swapping body heat. "I have to make a quick stop at the apartment first. You don't mind, do you, Carla? Then over to Thirty-fourth."

"Of course not, darling," she cooed, her irritation with him already forgotten. It's not all that far from my apartment."

"You don't say," Khan said, as the three walked to the curb and piled into her car. "Perhaps you can tell me all about yourself later, Ms. Giudicelli."

"Call me, Carla, Nadir," her eyes meeting his in the rear view mirror, as she put the car in gear and left the curb. "What line of work are you in?"

"I'm an actor."

"Oh? I love the movies! Name some."

Before Nadir could answer her with some of his better work, Erik zipped in ahead of him. "Television shows mostly. Movies? Not so much, although his latest brilliant role was a zombie in Dread the Walking Dead. He didn't say one word, did you, Khan?" swiveling around in his seat and giving him a chilly smile. "Yes, our Nadir here just grunted and chowed down on other actors slated to be killed off. An arm here, a leg there, munching his merry way through an entire hour. He was so covered in fake blood and gore, you wouldn't have recognized him, but no one snarled better than he did."

Nadir modified his death glare at Erik, cognizant of the fact that the money wasn't his yet. Something else he realized that only succeeded in making him uneasier. Erik meant to get even with him for a run-down brownstone apartment that had come with an irate woman and one small child.

The man in question gave him a slightly barmy, snaggle-toothed grin which held very little humor, and sat back against the seat, arms across his chest.

Erik was feeling mean today.

* * *

Min had been in bed an hour already, and Christine was hacking listlessly at a build up of ice in the fridge when Erik walked in. She put the ice pick down and turned around. "Hi," she said softly.

"Hello," he replied quietly, halting near the kitchen table. She was wearing a gray long sleeved tee and black yoga pants which did wonders for her slender form. To his hungry eyes, she looked quite tasty. He gestured to the fridge. "What are you doing?"

"Taking some of the ice outta here. This thing was ancient when I moved in." She regarded him hopefully. "Done for the day?"

"At the club. I...um...I only stopped by to get something, then I'm leaving again."

"Oh." Christine looked down at the melting ice in the plastic bucket at her feet. Her eyes steadfastly remained on it as she bit her lower lip. "We hardly see you anymore," she said lightly.

"Work has kept me busier this week," he hedged.

"Kind of like last week," she returned, _trying_ to keep any accusation out of her tone.

"We have a special show coming up with a live singer."

A warm flash of desire shot through her as she at last looked up at him. Her eyes settled on those thin lips which had heated up nicely beneath hers. Moved against hers so ardently. She forced herself not to jump into his arms and wrap herself tightly around him. She had effectively removed the right for her to do so.

"That's a little unusual, isn't it?" proud that her voice was smooth and even. If she couldn't have all of him, she would content herself with listening to his voice; carrying on a conversation with Erik at last, instead of clipped words spoken from an unsmiling mouth.

"Yes, and that includes a grand piano instead of my Forte 7."

She was just able to keep a straight face. "I would think you'd jump at the chance to play a piano ballad on the real deal."

"I do, but-" He looked strangely at her from eyes dark with fatigue. "How did you know it's a ballad?"

She shrugged, rocking slightly on her heels. _Almost blew it, Christine._ "Well, what else would it be? Not classical. I just assumed-" she trailed off, promising herself to guard her tongue a little better.

Erik relaxed a bit. "You're right of course. With seventy-six keys on the Kurz Forte, there's no competition with the actual instrument. The Kurz is advanced and the sound is expressive, and although it gets the job done, it doesn't have the chops that a grand has. This mystery singer insisted that the piano from the bar be moved onstage and used in place of my keyboard."

"Is she any good?"

He began tugging on his hair.

She would have loved to place her hands over his bony wrists just then, feeling the pulse which fluttered there, jump and react to her touch.

Erik's fingers carded through his hair, pushing it straight back. "I wouldn't know. That's another teaser. She won't practice with me, and I can't get a feel for her technique...her style." His mouth thinned. "She could be a relative or special friend of Abba's looking for fame with an atrocious voice and no talent."

"Sounds like you're not awfully excited about tomorrow night."

"You could say that," he agreed.

"When's the last time you got any sleep?" she asked. "You look like you're running on pure adrenaline."

"And _now_ you pretend to care?" his words carrying a bitter undercurrent.

"I've always cared," she protested hotly. "I worry about you, Erik! Maybe if you hadn't made yourself as scarce as hen's teeth, we could've talked about this." She moved closer to him. "We can talk now.

"If you want to," her voice soft and pleading.

He took a step toward her, putting out a hand. He _was_ exhausted. Living in the same apartment with her... wanting to throw himself at her feet and beg her to love him. It kept him restless and on the move, never allowing him to stop, his mind giving him no peace. He ached for her night and day- sleep was the least of his problems.

"Christine-" The shrill sound of a car horn on the street cut him off.

She glanced swiftly at his hand before he self-consciously yanked it back.

"Is that grease on your knuckles?" She leaned closer. And under your nails? What have you been up to?"

"Uh, someone had engine trouble earlier today," he said dismissively, not quite telling a lie. He had scrubbed zealously at his hands, but grease _would_ embed itself in skin and under nails, averse to simply being scoured away. "I have to go, but I'd like to-" He stopped, sighing in exasperation. No sense telling her he wanted to start over again. She didn't want anything lasting from him. She had left his declaration of love hanging out to dry, his hurt and disappointment sending him fleeing out the door.

He had been hiding from Christine for the better part of two weeks now, afraid to face her, and yet he was edging closer everyday to accepting any crumbs she was willing to give. He was in a wretched state; had been since that rainy day which had taken him to the heights, and sunk him to the depths all in one afternoon. Just to allow his arms to settle around her, feeling her heat warming all of the frozen places- body and soul, would be tantamount to a declaration of acceptance. Her way.

But would it in the end, be enough for him to live with, wanting what she wasn't going to give?

"Yes, Erik?" her mouth had gone dry at his soft entreaty.

He shook his head and backed reluctantly away from her. "Nothing. I have to go," he repeated stoically, and with one more speaking glance her way, went to his room.

Christine sighed heavily and walked to the window overlooking the street. She stiffened at the sight of the car idling there. It was very familiar to her, having seen it at the curb months before. She was still staring down at the street when Erik returned to the kitchen.

She nodded at the window. "Is that what they call it now?" helpless to stop the surge of jealousy burbling merrily away at the sight of _her_ car.

"Call what?" he responded, puzzled by her stiff bearing and sudden animosity.

"Having a date with your old girlfriend is now considered work?"

"It's not what you think."

"Yeah? I know I gave up all rights having any say where you go and who you see. I got that, but clue me in, Girard. A week ago you professed to love me, and now you're skulking around with that... that... skag!"

"I told you. It's nothing, but just to clear things up a little, what am I to think of your proprietary air where I am concerned? You persist in getting bent out of shape over Carla, growling at me as if I were nothing more than your favorite chew toy, but you don't want me. You have made that abundantly clear! I'm a means to an end... a _special_ friend that does not carry a commitment with it. Simply put...you don't want her to have me either."

"She's bad for you, Erik, You know that as well as I do!"

"And you're any better?" His eyes held a great deal of pain, and she felt ashamed for having put it there. "You're killing me," he said raggedly, before escaping out the door.

Christine wrapped arms around herself, feeling cold and slightly nauseated. "Shoot your mouth off some more, and maybe you can help him pack," she muttered to her reflection in the glass.

She stepped closer to the window and watched as he left the building, striding to the car as if he couldn't put distance between them fast enough. Briefly, he looked up at her before he got in the front seat, and she pressed a palm to the cold glass as the car merged into traffic.

"I do love you," Christine whispered.

She rubbed furiously at her eyes, shaking with a love for Erik that at the moment, was anything but pleasant. _Nothing_ would be better than having him in her arms again, but she was going to have to work to get him back there.

 _You're going to get up on that stage and woo him with your voice._ For a single moment, her nerve faltered, and she wanted to call off her performance at LipSync tomorrow night.

For a moment.

If she couldn't get him to remain still for more than five minutes at a time, well then, she would have to corner him and beat him over the head with lyrics and melody. That should capture his attention. Erik had wanted her to sing onstage.

He was about to get his wish.

* * *

"I hope Min doesn't clean her Uncle Phil out. I'd like a really nice present this year, and he has a lot of making up to do. Christmas shopping with you de Chagny women will send him to the poor house!"

"I _told_ Phil you were nothing but a gold digger," Christine replied nervously, her fingers continually plucking at the hem of her dress.

Sorelli smacked her hand. "Stop that! You're driving me nuts."

" _Your_ nuts? I'm a damned idiot for thinking I could do this!"

"You _can_ do this! The place is packed and you'll not only be showing Erik how you feel, but the whole damned world, so pull up those big girl panties, Chris," Louise encouraged bracingly, attempting to instill confidence in her friend.

"Oh, yes! I feel ever so much better now," Christine whined.

"Good! Mission accomplished then. You can do this. Happy you've finally accepted it."

Christine snorted. "I accept two things. I'm going to bomb big time and you're mental."

They were waiting backstage in an empty office room, safely tucked away from members of the band. Her entrance onstage was set for the last possible moment, and to say that she was nervous, would be a vast understatement.

She was terrified.

She would be baring her soul onstage, in a roomful of strange faces ogling her as she admitted her love to a man she had already denied once. What if Erik got sweet revenge, and laughed in her face? She moaned, grabbing Louise's arm and digging her nails in. "I can't do this! I-I'll screw up and look like a damned fool. Especially when Erik laughs at my feeble attempt to say I'm sorry."

"Better he laughs at that than your feeble attempt to sing," Sorelli pointed out.

"Way to go, Louise. Way to go," Meg said snidely. "Look how relaxed she is now. She can't even hold that glass of water without spilling it on herself!"

"Oh, she's gonna be just fine, aren't you, pumpkin? Go easy on that water though... you'll have to pee in the middle of your song. Hey! What's the worst that can happen? Erik planting one on ya before whisking you off for voice lessons?"

"Yes," Christine managed to croak. "That's right. You're right, Sorelli. Meg! Where's my deodorant? I'm sweating bullets here!"

A tap came at the door and Christine let out a squeal of fright. A voice followed. "It's time, Ms. Daae. I'm to take you up."

She drew in a few lungfuls of air, which only succeeded in making her light headed. "I can do this. I _can_ do this," she moaned, wringing her hands.

"Of course you can, Chris. And guess who's waiting for you up there? Won't he be surprised?"

"Yeah, won't he just," she said weakly.

The two women gave her hugs and thumbs up, before she left with the crewman for stage left to await her cue. As she got closer to the stage area, she could hear his amazing voice doing a thoroughly rousing rendition of Overload from Dirty Dancing. She picked up her pace, wanting to see a little of his performance, her nerves momentarily forgotten. She finally stood in the wings, out of sight of anyone onstage. She would be joining Erik very shortly, and could only hope that the shock didn't kill him. She _prayed_ it didn't- she had plans for that man.

Then she saw him.

"My heart," she whispered.

His awesome stage presence reached out and pulled her easily into his orbit, as she watched Erik forcefully stabbing the keys, the Kurzweil providing a small symphony of sound. His long thin legs were braced wide apart as he voiced the lyrics in a husky rumble, making him sound moody and dangerous, the driving beat so raucous and in your face that her belly quivered in longing. Erik rocked in a smooth rhythm on the balls of his feet, banging the keys with electrifying vitality, the volatile tempo, one of unadulterated sexual energy.

" _Can't take another night without you._

 _Honey, it's true. I am so hung up on you!_

 _But w_ _hat I really need, baby is a little of your company._

 _You got me on my knees!_

 _I burn throughout the night, and I can't live without your love._

 _Won't you help me cure this overload?_ _"_

Christine felt herself nodding a yes to him and pumped a small fist in the air, before jerking it back hurriedly and glancing furtively around. After tonight, she meant to cure that overload of his for good, or die trying. And looking at his rangy body, she could think of a number of ways to accomplish it.

She watched raptly as the last note was rung out of him and the club erupted in a clamor for more.

They loved him.

She loved him.

Her turn.

 _Here goes nothing, Christine. Break a leg..._

... and stepped onto the stage.

* * *

While the noise in the club died down after their last number, the Mood Savvy members, save one, exited the stage. Erik had approached the grand placed prominently to the right of the keyboard, and after seating himself, began to systematically crack his knuckles, his one concession to nerves in preparation of a performance. He waited with resigned fatalism for the prima donna who more than likely would bomb tonight, taking him with her. He knew the other band members were grouped stage right, just behind him, curious to see who the live bird was. And Erik was just as curious as they were, although he held very little confidence that this woman was going to deliver a worthy performance. Shot down in flames would be more like it. He glanced up when he caught a flurry of movement and the singer walked onstage.

The bottom dropped out of his stomach.

Erik was an expert at his craft and could perform through any glitch which took place during a live performance. And there had been many through the years, but his shock from the revelation that Christine was the mystery singer, nearly caused him to forget that he was the accompanist.

She was lovely in a short black dress, her hair pulled back from her face with clips that glimmered and winked under the stage lights. He recovered in a handful of seconds, and began playing in F major, the opening chords to Someone Like You, from Jekyll and Hyde, his fingers busy as he lovingly regarded the woman standing before him.

He forced himself to relax and let his hands do what they always did best- play from the heart. That very organ was now pounding madly in his chest, the excitement from seeing her walk onto the stage, causing a fine tremor to shake his gaunt frame.

Erik wanted to leap to his feet and pull her into his arms, but he was kept in place by the music which had always guided him through whatever life had tossed his way. He remained seated, attempting to wrest calm from his agitation, and thankfully, his composure reasserted itself as his professionalism kicked in. However, he _could_ allow a tiny bit of hope to percolate through his veins, his traitorous eyes blurring her dear face with tears that he refused to let fall. Instead, he prepared to lose himself in the music and Christine's voice, _Oh, her voice! Her sweet voice!,_ the certainty growing that the song was a message she was conveying.

To him.

Only for Erik.

" _I peer through windows_ _._

 _Watch life go by._

 _Dream of tomorrow,_

 _And wonder_ _why_

 _The past is holding me,_

 _Keeping_ _life_ _at bay._

 _I w_ _a_ _nder_ _lost in yesterday._

 _Wanting to fly,_

 _But scared to try._

 _But if someone like you,_

 _Found someone like me._

 _Then suddenly_

 _Nothing would ever be the same._

 _My heart would take wing,_

 _And I'd feel so alive!_

 _If someone like you_

 _Found me._

 _So many secrets_

 _I long to share,_

 _All I have needed_

 _Is someone there,_

 _To help me see a world_

 _I've never seen before._

 _A love to open every door,_

 _To set me free_

 _So I can soar_

 _If someone like you_

 _Found me."_

She kept her eyes forward for the most part, holding tightly to the mic, but couldn't help sneaking little glances at him. He was allowing her to set the tempo...as it should be, never pushing her, but playing to make certain that _she_ and not he, stood out. With his uncanny ear, Christine felt as though Erik was inside of her head, interpreting the direction she wished to take. She had decided to keep it as close to the original singer's rendition as she possibly could. Her own voice was lighter than a mezzo's, but she forged through, strangely at home with just the two of them onstage. Even surrounded by people, the moment felt oddly intimate. She could finally admit it to herself. To the whole damned world.

Christine loved Erik.

She found herself turning more and more to the musician at the grand. This was after all, for him.

She was approaching the coda, which was a good thing. Although she had practiced at home with recorded music, she was very aware that performing in front of a live audience quickly took the starch out of singer. Much later after the adrenaline had worn off, she could admit to herself that her voice and delivery were as gone as her bank account.

Well...maybe not _that_ bad, as her gaze rested upon Erik's and read there his enormous pride in her, his glittering eyes suspiciously bright. She sang to him as she moved closer- he was her personal touchstone, forgetting their audience, forgetting her fear of disappointing him. He loved her, and once acknowledged, she had never questioned how much she loved him.

And never would again.

She had waited for him to come and find her. All these long years. On a rainy spring day, she peered through a door and saw her future. Going through two failed relationships, only proved the old adage...third time's the charm.

And it was.

Her man.

Ever closer, she approached until she stood in the bow of the piano, singing only for him. There he sat, posture erect, exuding an ease and familiarity with the gleaming black instrument before him. He was a master of the ivories, hands splayed across the keys, in his element, even though the pristine grand piano practically shouted for a tail coat and formal trousers. Instead, he wore snug leather and black boots, his bared arms revealing skull tats for all to see. It should have seemed bizarre to her, but it only felt right, as he effortlessly bridged the gulf between two different genres, comfortable and commanding in any musical setting.

Her man.

One of a kind.

She saw the adoration in his eyes, felt it in her very marrow. Her lips caressed him even as she sang the words that expressed what she felt.

 _"Oh, if someone like you,_

 _Found someone like me,_

 _Then suddenly,_

 _Nothing would ever be the same."_

Christine reached for that higher sustained note, putting all of her emotion into it, bittersweet and yearning for the impossible.

 _"My heart would take wing,_

 _And I'd feel so alive!"_

And nailed it.

She looked with wet eyes at her lover, and read a promise there.

 _"_ _If someone_ _like you..._

 _Loved me!_

 _Loved me!_

 _Loved me!"_

The last notes died away in a whisper that was altogether too loud- as if the club patrons were all afraid to break the heavy weight of silence. Erik had climbed to his feet, his fierce pride in her performance shining from his eyes, both of them now breathless and little noting the uncanny quiet. The absence of sound, meant nothing to them, as their eyes locked on each other with an aching hunger, longing to be filled.

The club suddenly exploded into a wall of noise, and just like that, the vacuum was filled, many in the audience wiping furtively at streaming eyes. They cheered, clapped, and whistled themselves hoarse, the two onstage paying scant attention to any of it, as Christine took the last few tottering steps, and fell into a pair of strong arms that were ready and waiting for her.

She was finally home.

* * *

 **If you're not familiar with the musical, Jekyll & Hyde, then you might not have heard Linda Eder's rendition of Someone Like You. Don't get her confused with Adele's, because they are two different songs. If you'd like to hear Linda for yourself, type in Linda Eder, Someone Like You, 1994 Concept Cast Recording. You can find it on YouTube. There's different renditions, but this one, in my opinion, is the best. Beautiful song, beautiful lady.**

* * *

 **Next chapter- Say it again. Grease monkey. Cool tattoo. Paradise found and... lost?**


	21. Wear My Heart Upon My Sleeve

**Ann (guest)-** **Glad to hear it.**

 **Guest -** **Thank you. Here's another.**

 **Gingersnaps44-** **I like a squee or two...**

 **E (guest)-** **...and a yes ;)**

* * *

 **Big one. Snacks and the beverage of your choice recommended.**

* * *

"Your fans await," he whispered in her ear as they stood with arms around each other. "Go take your bows. You deserve them."

"Only if you come with me," she whispered back, shivering a little as his breath tickled the baby fine hair at her temple.

For an answer, Erik straightened up, but held tightly to her hand, leading Christine to center stage. The noise grew in proportion as they took their bows to cries of more from their audience, and she laced her fingers with his before they turned and headed backstage. Erik's thumb lovingly paid homage to the palm of her hand as they dodged Mood Savvy band members, one in particular watching their approach with hostility.

Carla narrowed her eyes and glared at the pair of them, before spinning on her heel and walking away.

Erik never slowed as he led her down the hallway and into an empty room. He closed the door behind them, and without waiting a moment more, pulled her into his arms, his mouth descending to hers in a frenzied meeting of lips, teeth, and tongues.

"Tell me why you did this," he said after a few minutes. He rested his forehead against hers, while keeping her possessively in the circle of his arms.

"Because I love you," she said simply. "Give me some much needed points for finally figuring it out on my own. Am I forgiven?"

"For what?"

"For not realizing what a lovely man you are."

"I cannot fault you for something even _I_ never knew. No one has ever called me lovely."

She kissed his chest. "Well you are, so don't argue. Am I forgiven?"

"Always," and bent further down for another kiss, his heart full to bursting. "Thank you."

She grinned against his mouth. "You don't have to thank me. You're stuck with me now, you know."

"I meant for the song. Shock is a hackneyed word to describe just about anything, but it is appropriate for what I felt seeing you standing there. _Hearing_ you," his voice low and intense.

"Pleasantly, I hope."

"More than you can know. You were beautiful, and God, your voice! Say it again." He buried his masked face in her hair, as yet, just a little bit suspicious of this change in his circumstances, half-way convinced that his mind was playing tricks on him.

It wouldn't be the first time.

He wanted this so very badly. " _Say_ it, Christine," he entreated.

There was only one thing Erik would never tire of hearing. "I love you," sliding her arms up around his neck as she met his eyes. "I _adore_ you!

"When I found out Nadir dumped me, all the air in the room was gone that day. I couldn't breathe; it wasn't grief or...or sadness so much. It was anger at myself; I couldn't get past the fact that I'd been such a simple fool. For what? A handsome face. I had to learn the hard way that being..." She sighed impatiently, trying to convey her feelings to someone else, when she had only just unraveled them herself. "What I mean is... good looks don't always reflect a good man. Look at you. You're backwards," she said softly, placing a palm over his heart. "You're handsome inside where it can't be seen, and the lucky woman who discovers it is the winner. Min realized it before I did. My bright girl."

"You're _my_ bright girl." his voice vibrating with emotion. "Mine," and kissed her again.

"Hey! Girard! We got us a show to do, so finish up in there," Aron's muffled voice spoke through the door.

"How did he know we were in here?"

"The all-seeing stage hands," he replied blandly. "Never do anything you don't want spread around."

She pulled his head down further by tugging on his hair. "Well, I'm sure they can spread this around if they want to," and proceeded to work his mouth over, which did wonderful things for his libido.

An impatient rapping on the door forced them apart, and with a harried sigh, Erik kissed her forehead, before yanking the door open to Arons. "Don't tell me. Abba wants us to do an encore."

"Nope, but he's highly pissed that Giudicelli took a powder. No soprano...no show. You better get out there and hold his hand."

"Carla left? What did she say?"

"Nothin' to nobody, but if looks could kill you'd be one hellava cold corpse."

"I've been half-way there ever since the day I was born," he said wryly.

"Just watch your back, man."

Erik studied Christine with a calculating gleam. "Carla walked off the job."

"So I gather. You can thank me later," she grinned.

"Care to take her place?"

"How? I don't know the material or the band's style, Erik," her voice climbing. "I'd stick out like Sorelli at a book club meeting."

"You're already familiar with just about anything we do on that stage. You worked piano bars, Christine, and that covers a lot of ground."

"Sure I did," she protested, "but they were mostly the shitty ones!" Still. "Would it be crazy of me to say yes?"

"Say yes now and they'll never let you down off that stage 'til you're a hoarse old woman," Louise told her, as she and Meg appeared in the doorway, closely followed by Mark Abba. Sorelli reached over and gave her friend a hug. "What can I say? You two were great up there!" eying Christine and Erik with amusement, "and just look what you get to take home."

"Before you do, though, you have a show to finish, Girard," Abba said impatiently. He turned to Christine and regarded her speculatively. "Not bad, Ms. Daae. Not bad at all. Care to continue?"

Christine looked at Erik. "I think I can manage it. Seems that I'm the one that ticked off your soprano."

"Oh. So I have _you_ to blame for that? Then let's get out there before my patrons decide to walk next door to the Opal Room," he proposed in no uncertain terms.

"After you, _Ms._ Daae," Erik said with a graceful sweep of one arm toward the door.

"Heh. It's my unofficial stage name," her smile sheepish. "Like it?"

"It has some very nice qualities," thinking Christine Girard had a much better ring to it.

* * *

The rest of the evening went by in a blur as Christine learned the ways of a rock band. To say that everything went smooth and seamless, would be a big fat exaggeration. At times she was frustrated by the effort to blend with the other singers, having been a single act for so long, but her prior work in theatre ensembles years before, helped her now. That and the steadying presence of Mood Savvy's frontman, of course. The icing on the cake was the haunting love song, Falling, that she performed with Erik, and no doubt their reconciliation had something to do with the magic they made on the stage that night.

Thank God for small mercies; it was supposed to have been Carla singing it with him, but by the time they had finished their live performances and recorded the music for lip-syncing, she had a healthy respect for what Erik did nearly everyday. Working in piano bars couldn't come close to it, even if she had climbed onto the bar and boogied her way through each song.

Sorelli and Meg joined Christine in the small office while she collected her coat and shoulder bag. "Min is at my apartment bathed and in her jammies, and she talked Phil into watching a movie with her. Come on. I'll give you two a ride home, and you and the Voice can spend the rest of the night getting reacquainted. Sound good?"

"I knew there was a reason why you're my BFF."

"Hey! What about me?" Meg complained. "You told me _I_ was!"

"That was last week, Meggie. It's Louise's turn now," Christine said gently, giving Sorelli a wink.

"Oh. Makes sense," she mumbled, and Christine gave her a one armed hug.

"Hey, thanks for all your help, BFF2."

Meg waved this away. "Not a problem. You can help me rope the next one. I'm thinkin' tall blonde Swedish type."

Christine laughed. "You got it."

They met up with Erik in the lounge area. He had ditched the leather for well worn jeans. "Sorelli is giving us a ride home," she told him, as he pulled her close to his side, glaring at the other two women as if daring them to object.

"I have transportation."

They all looked at him in surprise. "You do?" Christine asked a tad skeptically. "Since when?"

"Since I began renovating a Shadow Phantom."

Sorelli looked askance at him. "What the hell is a Shadow Phantom?"

"Motorcycle. It is a liquid-cooled 52" V-twin wide-ratio five-speed, and it's black and chrome from tip to tail," he answered with a hint of defensiveness.

"Does it have a heater?" was all Louise said.

Erik rolled his eyes at such nonsense. "No."

Sorelli looked at her friend. "You wearing your wool panties, Chris? No? Then I suggest you two sit real close."

He looked down at the top of her head. "You better accept that ride from Louise, Christine. You might find yourself too exposed in this weather," as he regarded her short black dress with a mixture of admiration and doubt. "Don't worry though, I'll be right behind you."

"Nope. I'm going with you," she answered mulishly.

His face flushed with pleasure beneath the mask, and he said nothing for a moment. Then to no one in particular, "Yes, it should help," he muttered, and headed toward the exit door. "At least her legs will be covered."

"Erik? Where are you going?" Christine called anxiously. "And...hey! What's that about... _legs_?"

"Be right back."

Sorelli watched him as he mumbled his way out the door. "Don't look now, but I think he went to buy you snow pants," she laughed.

When Erik returned, he held out a dirty white shirt and a pair of wrinkled trousers. "They're not fashionable, but they're better than that dress, at least in coverage." His smile was rueful. "Allow me to say though, that I prefer the dress."

Christine stared blankly at them before recognizing his paint spattered dress clothes, now liberally smeared with grease.

"I didn't think things could get more interesting, but damned if they just didn't! So you always carry formal wear with you?" asked Louise, squelching a smile. "For what? Just in case a fancy dress ball breaks out somewhere?"

"I wore them to work on the bike and left them in the saddlebags."

"Yeah, that makes sense," she answered with an eye roll. "I keep a strapless evening gown in the trunk of my car in case I get a flat." She nodded at the rumpled mess in his hands. "Put 'em on, Chris. If you insist on riding that thing, they'll help keep out the cold."

Meg gave her a thumbs up, and Christine hastily pulled them on beneath her dress, biting back a laugh at how snug they were. Erik was built like a noodle. He turned away as she slipped out of her dress and put on the shirt, the sleeves and tail reaching to her knees. He rolled the sleeves back and knelt at her feet cuffing the trouser legs many times over, so they wouldn't trip her up. She was ready to go.

"Oh, you're a sight, all right," Louise declared, snorting in amusement. "Love the slingback heels with it. Very classy."

Christine waved a hasty goodbye as she was led out the door in back of the building. The icy air hit her as they stepped away from the club and she hunched her shoulders in defense. She might look silly, but she was glad to be in Erik's pants, and snickered at the thought.

She studied the Phantom with interest when Erik halted near the low-slung black motorcycle chained to the light post.

"I saw it over two months ago on Lombardi Street with a for sale sign on it. It was attached to a pole, and each time I passed by, it had something else broken or missing. It looked pathetic." He shrugged. "I bought it two weeks ago. The price was right; I even got a little more knocked off. I needed something to fill my time; I... wasn't in a good place then, and I required something to keep me away from you," he explained mildly, but Christine heard the note of anxiety.

"I wish you hadn't stayed away," her hand clinging to his. "I'm so sorry for hurting you."

Erik shook his head. "You're here now, That's all that matters," and raised her hand to his mouth. "Besides... it's time to let the past go," he murmured. "In more ways than one."

"For both of us," she amended, resting a hand on the cold metal of the bike, "and I think Jeannette would agree, don't you?" she said quietly.

His tense shoulders relaxed a little. "The motor needed rebuilt and the carburetor was shot, but over-all it runs decent. A little more fine tuning, I think. Someday soon I will give it a new paint job and increase its resale value."

She took his cold hands in hers and studied the long slender fingers which seemed capable of almost anything. "You're amazing, you know that? So you're planning on selling it?"

"If I get a fair price, it will make a good down payment on a car. I believe I have a buyer already. Reggie Acosta from the band."

"This is where you've been hiding for two weeks? I thought it was Carla!"

"Carla? Why would you think that?"

"Because I saw her car in front of our apartment the other night, and you got in it."

"But I told you it meant nothing! She gave Khan and myself a ride to the garage bay I rented- and that's all she did," Erik said firmly.

"Glad to hear it," the news making Christine giddy with relief. "You officially belong to me now, Erik Girard," and when he remained silent, she glanced at him. "Belong. To. Me."

"Yes," he managed to say around the annoying lump in his throat.

She heard the catch in his voice, and gave him some time to recover. "I should have known you'd be a mechanic too. You make me feel like an unaccomplished slug!" she protested, laughing.

Erik cleared his throat and tried for a casual shrug. "My sister considered it to be a trade-off. My nose for the knows, is what she called it. I used to think it would be much better to have the nose and be dumb as a tree stump."

"And now?"

"Do you love me without one, Christine?"

"Yup. You make my motor run," she teased.

"Then I'd rather be smarter than a stump. At least I'd know when you're having me on."

"I'd never tease you, Rikki," she pouted, and went up on her toes, sliding her arms around his neck. "I lerves ya!"

"And I you, my little cabbage," his voice smooth as caramel and deep as a well. And it was doing strange things to her nervous system. It was literally humming.

"Then smack one on me, rocker dude."

He took her mouth in a gentle kiss. "How was that?" he murmured, trailing his lips along her jaw line.

"Mm...I want more, much more, but let's get home first."

He released her and motioned to the bike. "Do you trust me to get you there safely, if not warmly?"

"No one more," she asserted. "You did this all by yourself?" Giving the bike a closer look, she turned to him and caught the smirk he took no pains to hide. "Out with it, Girard."

"Well, I had a little help with the dirty work," he replied, amused. "Enough ancient grease and oily sludge on this bike to set off toxic waste alarms."

"Who?"

"Let's just say that you have been avenged." He shook his head. "I never thought Khan knew such foul language let alone used it! I rented a bay in a garage on Thirty-fourth and made him clean all the bike parts by hand- carburetor, sprockets, roller chain, etc. Removing the grease beneath his nails will take days; I made certain he was absolutely filthy by the time I let him leave."

"Oh? What time was that?"

"Two in the morning."

Christine spluttered a laugh. "I thought you owed him too much to get even."

"I believe what I _said_ , was that I wouldn't dissolve our friendship because of what he did to me. That did not extend to what he did to you."

"My hero!"

She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a squeeze. "Looks like you'll be riding me off into the sunset on your black charger." She felt wonderfully buoyant. And cold, as she shivered in the frosty air, but over the moon happy. Good thing, too. Her toes were frozen.

"Yes," he replied tugging her close, and said hesitantly, "Uh... perhaps we can warm each other up when we arrive home."

"Oh, I think you can count on that."

He settled her on the back of the bike, gently fitting a helmet over her head, and buckling it on. "Do you have gloves?" and when she shook her head, he pulled his from his jacket pocket and despite her protests, slipped them on her hands. "They're a little large, but they'll do."

Christine snorted. "A _little?_ I could easily fit these over my feet!

"With my shoes on!"

"Yes, but please do not," he protested in amusement. "They'll help some. Luckily, it's not a long ride home."

He straddled the bike and Christine's arms immediately circled his waist, clutching him tightly. He glanced over his shoulder at her. "This is for my sister," and with a booted foot, kick started the engine. Christine grinned when it roared to life.

"For Jeannette!" she yelled, pumping a fist in the air and nearly losing Erik's glove in the process.

They took off, merging with the traffic, and she felt a thrill as the sights and sounds of the city swept past them. She wiped at her eyes, the motion and cold air, making them water. The jewel bright colors of the Christmas lights blended into a soft palette of watercolors as she ducked her head against Erik's back, deciding a ride on a motorcycle would be much more fun when she wasn't exposed to a stiff December wind.

They rode past their apartment building, and Erik took them into the small strip of yard behind it, pulling up close to a battered metal shed where he killed the engine. "Mrs. Turley said I could keep it here instead of leaving it out front where all the thieves are," he told her.

She could only nod her head as her teeth chattered uncontrollably. Erik had already opened the shed, before turning around and helping her off of the bike. "Just give me a second." as he pushed the motorcycle into the shed and locked the doors behind it. He took one glance at Christine, before scooping her up in his arms, amused when she squealed in surprise and began to struggle.

"I can walk, you know!"

"Of course you can, but this is much more fun," he said lightly, as he made his way around to the front, entered the building, and took the steps two at a time.

"Put me down before you throw your back out! And you know what _that_ means!" she seethed.

"You will be serving me breakfast in bed?"

"It means that's _all_ you'll be getting in bed, fella!"

"My frame may appear to be weak and spindly, but I assure you, Christine, it is not," as he made it to the second floor, scooting past a fellow tenant, her arms loaded with a basket of folded laundry, eyes bulging in surprise at the sight before her.

"I turned my ankle on the stairs," Mrs. Klein," Christine said weakly, and the woman simply nodded, not at all phased when the skinny man leaned down and kissed the young woman in his arms.

Erik made it to their door and handed her the key to unlock it, all the while placing cool kisses to her forehead, cheeks and chin. She got the door open, still protesting the fact that he wouldn't release her.

"Uh, you can put me down now, Girard," she vehemently protested. "At least put a light on before I get dumped on the damned floor!"

He shoved the door closed with his foot, and moved to the nearest wall switch just as he crushed his mouth to hers in a bruising kiss. Christine's hand, which had begun to reach for the light switch fumbled aimlessly until she ceased altogether to care, her fingers instead, burying themselves in his hair, a warm coil of desire settling in the pit of her stomach. Erik released her just then, and let her slide down his long frame, his body pressing hers up against the wall.

His tongue slid along the line of her plump lower lip, gently sucking it into his mouth as they moved against each other, his angular length seeking her warmth like a cat searches for the sunniest spot in the window. He wasn't cold anymore; he was burning with a febrile intensity and couldn't fathom how he had safely navigated the past two weeks without her and not gone messily insane.

"I love you so much," he muttered. "So very much... I was miserable, Christine. I-"

She put a finger to his lips. "Shh... I'm here now. I love you too."

Erik nodded, leaning his forehead against hers, before grabbing her hand and pushing it between their bodies, proving his desire for her. She was dry mouthed with want as her hand closed over him. "Right here. Now. Right now," she urged in a harsh whisper.

Obeying her, he fumbled with the trousers she was wearing until her hand slipped over his and guided his movements. Impatient now to feel him inside her, Christine yanked at her clothes, her pantyhose ripping in her haste to get them off. Erik next attacked his own clothing, wincing as jeans grudgingly gave ground to his painful arousal.

She felt hot and tight, her earlier chill gone, replaced by a crawling, sensual heat as Erik placed his hands beneath her thighs, effortlessly lifting her slender frame. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms tightly around his neck, whimpering in relief as he slid into her. He braced himself against the wall, his mouth suckling her neck as he pushed urgently into her soft, yielding warmth.

His excitement high, his control low, Erik left Christine behind as he attempted to pace himself and take it slower, but his desire for her defeated him. Try though he might, a few more strokes into her welcoming heat took him over the edge and beyond. He gave a hoarse shout as he climaxed, feeling elation and a healthy dose of shame that he couldn't wait for her. Panting roughly, he dropped his head to her shoulder, deeply embarrassed.

"I...got carried away. No excuses. I'm sorry." He felt her small hand in his hair, fingertips lightly brushing against his scalp.

"You're not the first man to pop his cork before it's time," she replied, burying the frustration at her failure to launch, "and I egged you on to hurry." _Nothing_ was going to ruin her happiness on this night. "You just need lots of good lovin', that's all, and I expect make-up sex now that you've blunted the edges a bit."

"Yes. Make-up sex I can do," his legs trembling from reaction as he set Christine on her feet. If she was disappointed, she hid it well. He adjusted his clothing and grabbed her hand, leading her to his bedroom.

"Erik? You can leave off the mask. I don't mind." She had debated saying anything, but decided a little bravery would go a long way. She wanted to accept all of him.

Even if she wasn't ready. It would take time getting used to his face, but she never doubted that she would.

Eventually.

"No."

The word was stark and final, and Christine wished she had kept her mouth shut. "Hey. It's okay. Really. I just want you to be more natural around me."

"There is nothing natural about this face." He abruptly sat on the edge of the bed, his knees still weak, and put his face in his hands. "I don't want to lose you," he whispered. "I just got you back."

The burn of tears pricked her eyes as she watched him, his fingers splayed across his mask. She knelt down and gently pulled his hands away, cradling them in hers. "Hey, you! You're not going to lose me. I'm fine with however you want to do this. If it makes you feel better to wear it, then that's fine."

"I don't want to gross you out," he muttered, still afraid to meet her eyes. I am like a human made of salt left outside in a fine spring rain." He stared sightlessly at the worn floor. "The features begin to melt, caving in the cheeks, collapsing the nose until it is winnowed down to nothing." He heaved a deep and painful sigh. "It is little more than a death mask, and not a very good one at that."

"Your face doesn't frighten me," she said bravely. "I've seen it, remember? What grosses me out is the way you chew gum," and forced a smile when his head whipped up.

"I do not chew gum! Wherever did you see me with-"

She laughed softly. "Gotcha," and released his hands to unbutton his shirt.

He shook his head, instead pulling her between his legs, his hands sliding down to her deliciously bare ass. "No ma'am," he said firmly. "It is Erik's turn now."

He removed her coat, before starting in on the white shirt, until he gazed with ardent eyes at what he could see of her breasts covered by a scrap of black lace. "You are going to drive me back to crazy one of these days, but this time, I will enjoy it," his somber mood lighter, as he unhooked the bra and let it fall. He dropped his head and pillowed it between her breasts, turning from side to side as he bestowed a tender kiss on each.

"We really were in a hurry, weren't we?" her breath catching in her throat at the sensation of his cool lips on her hypersensitive skin. She fully intended to return the favor and unbuttoned his shirt, pushing it off of his shoulders with gentle hands. Her movements though were arrested, as she stared at Erik's chest, where the tattoo of an oak tree now grew, its leafy green branches spreading out over its brown trunk, a crudely carved heart pierced by an arrow dead center. Inside the heart were tiny block letters in black and gray inks, _**Erik loves Christine.**_ It was cleverly done, and the four inch tree was placed directly over his heart, the skin still appearing pink and tender. Her finger lightly traced each and every letter before she spoke.

"When was this done?" she whispered.

"Four days ago."

"It's beautiful," she replied, placing her lips over their names.

"I wanted to have something of you." He shrugged. "This was my only option at the time."

"Well, that does it! I'm getting your name tattooed somewhere on _my_ body," drawing him down with her, and sighing softly as his weight pressed her into the mattress. "Maybe right above," she cleared her throat, tongue firmly in cheek, "uh, maybe right above where we bump fuzzies with an arrow pointing down."

"I don't need directions, Christine," his hand covering the area in question.

"Mm. Feels good," as he began to stroke her. "Okay. Ah...um...um...h-how about on one of my breasts?"

"Not your chest. No one sees your chest but me," he stated firmly.

"Caveman doesn't become you, Girard," she scoffed.

"All right, but if it's somewhere personal, I would prefer to be present."

She simply nodded, her hand pulling impatiently at his hair, tugging his mouth to hers. "We have all night," she whispered, sighing happily against his lips.

Erik nuzzled her throat, his thin fingers sinking into her to her great relief. "Correction. We have the rest of our lives," and the world slipped away.

* * *

Her bladder woke her at four-thirty that morning, and although Christine had no wish to leave her warm place nestled beside her lover, she had little choice. She had to pee, and began to carefully slip from his possessive hold, when his arms tightened.

"Where're you going?" Erik mumbled drowsily.

"Your bladder might be made from cast iron, but mine isn't."

"Hurry back?"

She leaned down and kissed him. "Care to come with me?"

"You need me to hold your hand?" he said in amusement.

"And other things. In the shower," she answered in her best come hither voice, and laughed when he sat up and started to get out of bed. "Give me a minute, and come on in."

When they returned to the bed much later, Erik stretched out and waited for her to join him, his eyes seeming to glow in the darkness. Weird. She shook her head, sliding gratefully under the blankets, his arms closing around her as he rested his bony chin in her hair.

"Better?"

"Much."

He grinned into the darkness. "Round three, coming up."

She sighed happily, recalling his hungry mouth on her. "You're insatiable."

"Do you mind?"

"Not at all," snuggling closer and slipping a leg cozily between his.

"Christine? When... uh, when did you first start to have warmer feelings about... me?" Her hand had strayed to his side and begun stroking his ribs, and he fought to lie still. It tickled.

"Aside from your hot stage performance, I'd have to say...um...I'd have to say that same night when you came home drunk and threw up in the toilet."

Not what he had expected. "Why then? I can think of warmer times than that." He snorted. "Better smelling ones anyway."

"Why?" She shrugged, not sure herself. "Because you were sicking up your guts and trying to be so dignified about it. I guess my maternal instinct kicked in because I wanted to give you a hug right then and there."

"I should have acted a little more pathetic and maybe I would have got one."

"Maybe. What about you?"

"The night I came home drunk and threw up in the toilet," he admitted reluctantly. "You were uh...different. Softer. People have not always been concerned about my welfare, unless it coincided with theirs. You were caring and...nice to me." Tender feelings aside, he wouldn't tell Christine that he had wanted to have his wicked way with her for a much longer time than that.

She nestled further into his arms and trailed a cold foot up his skinny leg, seeking a spot of warmth for her icy toes. "How 'bout that? We started liking each other at the worst possible time. Must mean it's true love," and began singing way off key. " _It must be love I'm thinking of, it must be love,"_ she crooned, poking her other foot between his legs and rubbing them like an unhinged Jiminy Cricket.

"I will try my best to warm your feet, but you must admit, I would make a poor furnace," vastly amused by a happy Christine.

"You make a _great_ furnace," she teased running her feet up and down his calves, and laying her head on his bare chest. I should have done something with my hair while I was in the bathroom. I feel frowsy."

He smoothed her hair back and murmured tenderly, "I love you frowsy. You seem more attainable to someone like me."

"You know, I was thinking the same thing about you," she giggled. "Two frumps fall madly in love and live happily ever after."

He smiled with supreme contentment. "And _I_ was just thinking: your taste in men has definitely improved."

"So says the man with his hand on my boob."

She chuckled in such a way that he felt a twitch of interest from his nether regions. "They seem to gravitate there, seeing as how I have fantasized about them quite often."

She grinned up at him. "What's next? My tushi?"

"Could be. I like your tushi very much." He was playing with a lock of her hair. "Christine? What did you promise Abba?"

"Promise him?"

"Mark Abba knows music, is a savvy business man, but he does nothing for free."

She shrugged bare shoulders. "He asked if I would sort of _talk_ to you about the contract he offered, and I told him I would mention it."

"He wants five years. I will accept only two, _with_ the option for more if I so choose."

She sat up in bed and stared at his narrow form in the dim room. Her hold on the sheet covering her nakedness eased, and he was treated to an enticing display. "Are you saying you _want_ a contract now? I haven't said a word!"

"I already planned on discussing a modified contract with him. I have plans and his club will come in handy to practice."

"Practice what?"

"Eventually returning to the piano onstage, perhaps writing music again. I have scraps of ideas written down, but mostly I wish to bring your instrument to the level it belongs."

"You're going to teach me?"

"Yes. If you will allow it. Then we can perform together just like we did last night."

She was surprised to say the least, but interested. Very interested. "All right. I _think_ I'd like that. I know someone who can read over any contract Abba puts forward. You'll get the best possible deal."

"Let me guess. He's everything I am not, and I usually manage to upset him just by being in the same room."

Christine giggled. "Yep, that would be Phil. He can help you, Erik. He can help us."

"I will think about it."

"Let Phil look at the contract. He wants to get to know you better."

"He does?" he replied skeptically.

"No," she admitted, "but I want the two of you to be civil to one another for Min's sake."

"I can do civil. Can de Chagny?"

"That's where Louise comes in. She'll make him do civil or else."

"What is the... or else?"

"Making him sit through one of her maintenance nights."

"Ouch." He kissed the corner of her mouth. "Don't worry."

"I won't. Now... enough of them and more about us. You were explaining how your hands prefer to be resting on certain parts of my anatomy?"

"Mm. Like this?" and his hand descended to her rosy flesh, inserting a finger somewhere warm and damp.

Christine's eyes had fluttered shut. "You know, I always imagined you as a famous gunslinger in black hat and bad ass attitude, secretly pining for the saloon girl you love from afar. Me," she said, batting her lashes.

Erik couldn't think of anywhere else he would rather be than here with Christine in his arms. She belonged there. With him. _Only_ with him. "No. Not a dance hall girl. More like the girl next door. That is how I picture you."

"Girl next door? How boring. Next you'll have me giving birth to a slew of kids."

"Never," he stated emphatically. "I want you all to myself," and set about proving to her just how much.

* * *

When next she awoke, it was morning, the dull, grayish light outside the window elbowing its way in. Christine yawned and stretched, wincing at some soreness in certain places. She sighed in languid contentment, recalling their busy night.

Erik stirred beside her. "We are a couple of slugs."

"No we're not. We've actually had very little sleep."

"You don't regret it...do you?"

"Regret what?"

"Me," he whispered.

"Never," she said firmly.

"I'm not exactly what most women care to wake up beside."

She arched an eyebrow. "Trolling for compliments, Girard? Okay. Here goes." She held up three fingers. "Know what these are?" and he shook his head. "You. You're kind, helpful, and intensely loyal. That should bolster that male ego of yours."

"I believe you have just described a boy scout," he returned with an indulgent smile.

She traced a finger around his thin lips. "There. That's what I love," she said softly. "Your smile. I love your smile and the way your eyes seem to crinkle at the corners. That, and the very lovely time you showed me last night. Several times, in fact," giving him a sexy growl for effect. "Do you mean to tell me that women didn't fall at your feet?"

"That's all it took? I only needed to smile more to get you at my feet?"

"Yup," she replied without hesitation.

"You must be the exception to the rule then about pretty women and ugly men. The few _encounters_ I have had with women, were from those with stars in their eyes, wanting a taste, no matter how vicariously, of celebrity. They would wait patiently by the stage door for whomever was there." He shrugged narrow shoulders. "Some of them, I think, had a very developed sense of ennui, and wanted to put a smile on this pile of skin and bones. And I let them."

"Of course you did, babe. Your music probably started the ball rolling. You're a magician with those damned keys! Many times I listened to your CDs and cried my ass off!"

"My eloquent lady," he murmured softly. "I was intrigued from that first day you called me a son of a bitch."

She rubbed her cheek against the smoothness of his mask. "And what do you know? It was true. Answer the question, you! Did they?"

Erik shrugged. "In a manner of speaking, a few did, I suppose. Back then I took it when or however I could get it- which wasn't often. My first time was with a society matron twenty years older than me- she took my virginity for kicks, I believe. Or maybe she was bored. I was lonely- hungry for someone to share everything with. Someone to talk to... _listen_ to. Wake up with... have breakfast. Make love until we were tired, then do it all over again. They however didn't want that, although it was a trade-off. They wanted fame and the glitter of the stage, and were convinced I could help them attain it, so... they were in a hurry to prove their magnanimity. But I never relaxed- afraid that they would inadvertently see the real me and freak out."

He gestured to their two bodies entwined on the bed. "There was none of this intimacy...this feeling of belonging to someone... this _comfort_. I tell you, Christine... there is nothing like it in the world! But back then, it was over so quickly, I didn't have time to get much of a smile on my face. I was provided with the means to get the things I needed. A woman. Relief. Don't get me wrong. It was far better than the alternative."

"I can just guess what that is." She placed a soft kiss on his chest. "Are you smiling now, Erik?"

"From ear to ear."

She snuggled closer, pushing a knee between his legs, and felt an emotion so simple, it nearly took her breath away. Satisfaction. Making Erik happy gave her immense satisfaction. Anything it took to make him happy. "That's my boy," she replied contentedly. "Can I ask you _why_ there hasn't been any sex in five years? That's a long time for a man to abstain, isn't it? Don't you boys get sick or something?" she asked innocently.

Too innocently.

Oh, yes. Yes," his tone grave. "Celibacy made me quite ill over the past five years, and will need your active participation on a regular basis to prevent a relapse."

Her hand slipped down to his groin. "Poor Erik. We certainly can't have that, now can we?"

"No, ma'am. We cannot," and shifted closer to her stroking hand, "but to answer your first question, I suppose it was, although when I was first discharged from Smith's Grove, I had to acclimate myself to the world again, and I had very little interest in sex at the time. I was also disinclined to mingle, even months afterward, and I have never been an extrovert. But I think the main reason was my mindset. The guilt and sorrow I was wallowing in required a sacrifice for my sister, and that meant denying myself any pleasure."

"Did I help change your mind?"

"Time helped distance me from the accident and my sister's death, but yes, I saw that bloodshot blue eye peering at me through the peep hole, and I was curious about the body attached to it." His fingers had begun stroking her bare shoulder, and she relaxed into his touch. "This though, is more than I deserve."

Christine sat up on one elbow and squinted an eye at him. "That's a dumb ass thing to say! You deserve love the same as anyone. Besides...you make me laugh."

"I make you... _laugh_?"

"Oh, don't sound so suspicious, Girard. Not laughing _at_ you! Although I think you're mighty cute when you're telling your bad jokes!"

Erik snorted at how silly she was, but he felt a tightness in his chest at her words. "Cute, describing _me_ , is a first. Unless I count the time with braids in my hair. Allow me to enjoy it quietly for a moment," and he laid back and closed his eyes.

"Your moment's up!" giving him a shove. "I stand by cute! You're warm and funny. You just don't realize it."

He shrugged thin shoulders. "I am a fool, Christine. Of the motley variety that Shakespeare portrayed so well. Often the comic relief of the play, good for a laugh or two, but letting the audience in on a few fundamental truths that the other characters find hard to understand."

"Oh? And what are those?" her voice throaty and achingly tender. She slid closer to him, not even wanting a tiny space separating them.

"That you love me," he said quietly.

"Already there," lazily tracing a finger around his ear. "What else?"

He found himself swallowing hard, hearing the dry click in his throat. "That I am the one you have been waiting for... the one you wish to spend the rest of your life with. Because _I_ am the one who will never ever leave."

"I can't think of anyone else I'd rather be shackled to," she said, grinning. "You're my ball and chain."

He kissed her for that and added, "You are a thorn in my side."

"Oh, yeah? You're excess baggage," she declared.

"Monkey on my back," he said promptly.

"Weary load," she fired back at him.

He placed kisses beneath her jaw, his mouth then tracing a path to one breast. "Millstone around my neck."

"You win," she chuckled, giving out a tiny moan when he grazed his teeth across a nipple. "You know more big words than me. Therefore, I bow to your superior attitude...oh, and those bony knees and skinny legs."

"Yes, but you love me in spite of my bony knees."

"Desperately," she whispered.

He nuzzled her throat, overcome. "I will take it. In my life it has been few and far between."

"Not even Carla?"

" _Especially_ Carla. My star was rising, hers never budged an inch. She coasted through the roles I got for her, never quite special enough. She was simply using me."

"Well, all I can say is, she must have had a swell time doing it. I hate her," Christine growled.

"You have no need to worry about Carla."

"She's very persistent, is your ex. Myself, I think she really does miss you."

"Love was, and is far from her mind, Christine."

"Not love. Lust."

"And why after all these years does she find me so irresistible?"

"Because obviously no one since has measured up, if you get my meaning."

He snorted a laugh. "What _are_ you trying to say? She sees me as her personal dildo? As a...a _sex toy?_ "

"Baldly put, but yeah. That's only because she couldn't see beyond the obvious."

"Which is?"

"That very large, very beautiful heart you have, that's beating just for me," and she rolled over on top of him, kissing him senseless.

He had never had it so good.

* * *

Louise arrived home with Min just after eleven, and one look at the two adults sitting at the kitchen table, clued her in on how their night had gone. They were looking nauseatingly mushy at one another, and she didn't miss the hand-holding. Or the sound of Erik's phone going off.

Which he made no attempt to answer.

Min didn't miss the hand holding either, and frowned at this new development. She shook it off, glad that Erik was sitting at the kitchen table looking relaxed and in no particular hurry to go anywhere.

"Mom! Can we go get our Christmas tree today?" and not waiting for an answer, dropped her things just inside the door, making a bee-line for Erik. "You're home!" she screeched. He stood up and caught her as she jumped into his arms and clung to his wiry frame, doing her usual version of a cocklebur. "I missed you! Now you can see my zombie score. You won't believe it!"

He smiled and cut his eyes to Christine, before allowing himself to be dragged away.

Christine stared at her daughter's retreating back and muttered irritably, "How was your outing with Uncle Phil, Min? Good? Mine, you ask? Super. I sang onstage with Erik and we brought the house down, and you should have seen your old mom jumpin' and groovin' to the tunes. Later that evening we... but that's as far as I'll go with that."

Louise sank down on a chair and patted her friend's hand. "Go a little further with _that_. Aunt Lou is listening."

Christine turned and wearily regarded her friend. "You and your one-track mind. Okay, I'll give it to you in one word- terrific. I've finally gone and done it, Louise."

"Done what?"

"Found my O n' O."

"I'm glad, Chris, even if you're not dishing on the details, I guess I can live with that." She nodded toward the bedroom hallway. "You don't have to worry about Min accepting Erik in your life. She's crazy about him, isn't she?"

Christine chuckled. "Yeah. Doing everything but calling him daddy."

"So are you two gonna be good friends across the hall or move in together?"

"We never got that far," Christine admitted, "but sure, it makes sense. Since we got up this morning, Erik's phone hasn't stopped, and reporters for the Daily News _and_ NYArts were at the door bright and early."

"What's goin' on?"

"Nothing good."

"Give me a hint."

"In one word? Carla."

"Uh oh."

Christine, a good while ago, had told her friend about Erik's past, giving much credit to his fame as a concert pianist, and less as a crazy man. Sorelli had been impressed, but not really surprised by any of it, and now she lambasted Giudicelli by using some very interesting terminology.

In turn, Christine was impressed with her friend's knowledge of such terms. Something to do with Carla and beastiality.

"Can you believe it? Carla, in a vindictive rage, went to the press and spilled the beans on LipSync's frontman. Now Abba's phone and Erik's have never stopped ringing."

"What's he going do?"

"Abba said he'd give the interested parties an interview, explain Erik's position, and expect them to leave him alone."

"Huh," Sorelli grunted. "Wish in one hand and shite in the other. Giudicelli better head for the hills. I wouldn't want Abba or Erik in my bad books."

Christine shook her head. "Oh, he'd like nothing better than a little payback, but he's not getting anywhere near her."

"What's stopping him?"

"Me."

"'Nuff said," Louise replied with a grin.

"He kills her, they'll haul him away, and she's not worth the trouble. This will all die down... well, it will after a few tell-all articles get published in the worst of the rags out there, and rake up the accident again, and... its aftermath. Abba is sending a car to take Erik back and forth to work, and he's hiring a couple more bouncers. He's also threatening to sue anyone dumb enough to continue hounding his employee."

"Does he need a lawyer? I know a good one."

Christine snorted. "So does Abba. His ex-wife's. And he trusts the man to go for the jugular."

"Well that problem is solved. Now what about Min?"

I'll tell her she's going back to her old room, and she gets a bigger bed out of the deal."

"Think she'll be okay with that?"

Christine shrugged. "Sure. Why not? She loves Erik, and now he's really a part of this family, not just a roommate. She'll be so happy!"

"Certain about that, pumpkin? Not going to be eating those words?"

"I think I know my own daughter, Louise!" Christine snapped.

She was about to find out what crow tasted like.

* * *

After Sorelli left, Christine walked into the bedroom and watched the by-play between her daughter and Erik as they hooted and kept up a running commentary on the game. There was a tightness in her throat that she tried to dislodge by giving a little cough. Her daughter and lover glanced up from the computer screen making her laugh at the twin looks of preoccupation.

"Who wants to go get a Christmas tree? They have some dandy ones in the lot over on Beekman Street."

"Can Erik come too?"

Min turned back to the computer, and her mother looked up at the man in question, giving him a smile that promised many things. "I was hoping he would." She moved closer to Erik and slipped an arm around his waist. "I need someone strong to carry our tree two blocks. What do you say, big guy? There's a pizza in it to seal the deal."

He paused long enough to appear to be thinking about his answer. "Pizza, you say? _And_ the company of two lovely ladies? How can I refuse?"

Min, on hearing this, shut her computer down and raced to get her coat. While she was gone, her mother stole a few kisses from her one and only, promising more very soon. "I have to have a little talk with Min later about us," she told him before stepping away. "Tomorrow will be time enough to switch rooms."

"As much as I want it, Christine, and I do," Erik said with naked longing, "perhaps giving Araminta a few days to get used to the idea of us as a couple, would be wise."

"She loves you, and what better way for her to know that you have no intention of leaving us," Christine reasoned, her tone impatient. First Louise and now Erik.

He shrugged, but kept quiet when Min appeared in the doorway with her mother's coat. "Come _on,_ Mom, or all the good trees will be gone!'

"Yes, ma'am, right away, ma'am. Geesh! Are you bossy, or what?"

* * *

The clean smell of pine filled the small apartment, the atmosphere one of contentment as they sat down to a dinner of pizza and salad. Min stared adoringly at the scotch pine lit with multi-colored lights, and bright with every Christmas decoration acquired and added to over the years. She had a personal collection for each one of her seven years of life, handmade by her mother from Christmas sheet music, cardboard, silver glitter, red ribbon, and cording which were layered into stars. They had places of honor on the tree, and she knew there would be a new one by Christmas Eve. This year her mom had made one for Erik as well.

"It's so pretty," she sighed. "Isn't it, Erik?"

He studied the tree with his head tilted. "Yes," he finally agreed, "it is the nicest I have ever had the pleasure of decorating, and that hasn't been many." For Erik, it was a culmination of many wishes fulfilled. He was loved. There was no feeling in the world to compare to it, and he had trouble simply believing it was his to keep.

"Didn't you have Christmas trees at your house?"

"Yes, but I was not always welcome in the room while it was decorated."

Min's tender heart rebelled against this news. "Who wouldn't let you?"

"My mother never forbid me to help, Araminta, but she made certain I wouldn't want to stay very long."

"I don't like her very much," the little girl replied, almost apologetically.

He could have told her that a steady stream of comments comparing him to other boys his age and always found lacking, had soured him for the holidays, but he had no wish to make the little girl feel worse. "It was a long time ago." He looked at the tree in the corner. Really looked. It had been very enjoyable trimming it with the colorful lights, delicate glass ornaments, and the clever sheet music stars. Better yet, was the laughter and gentle teasing that he hadn't been a part of since his sister died. He never realized how very much he had missed it.

Until now.

"Can I go, Mom?"

Christine eyed Erik intently, and he pushed his chair back and stood up. "I'll just go check on the bike," he said quietly.

After he had gone, Christine began clearing the table. "Wanna help me, girlfriend?"

One more look at the tree twinkling in the corner of their living room, and Min shrugged. "Sure."

Christine sought the right words. "Min, you like Erik, don't you?"

The little girl was busy piling dirty plates on the counter and simply nodded a yes, ducking her head shyly.

"I do too," Christine said softly. "Very much." She turned to her daughter and decided the direct way was the best way. "In fact, Minnie...I-I love him and he loves me."

Min stopped what she was doing and slowly turned toward her mother, the pizza she had just eaten, now sitting like a rock in her stomach. "So what, Mom? Why're you sayin' this?"

Christine didn't hear the warning in her daughter's tone, or if she did, chose to ignore it and plunged ahead. "What do you say that tomorrow... we put you in your old room? Would you like that?"

"Why?" her tone flat and cautious.

Christine dried her hands on the dish towel and sat down at the table. "Come on over here, Min."

Her daughter moved slowly over to the table but refused to sit. Christine patted a chair seat. "I want to talk to you, so park it."

The girl shook her head. "Don't want to."

Christine was trying to be reasonable. "Okay. I get that, Min, but why not?"

"Because I don't," the girl said stubbornly.

"What's going on? Talk to me," her mother pleaded.

She shrugged her small shoulders. I don't want to move."

"We can fix it up just for you, Min. A-And you'd be in the same room as your computer again. Won't that be great? You and Scooby?"

"Where's Erik going?" her tone one of suspicion.

Her mother cleared her throat and drummed her fingers on the tabletop. "He'll be sleeping with...uh... with me."

"I _knew_ it."

Christine blanched at the sound of those three little words, spoken with a harshness that should never have come from a seven year old's mouth.

"Knew what, honey?"

"Knew that sooner or later you'd send him away."

"He's not going anywhere, Min! Isn't that what I just said? I-I thought you'd be _happy_!"

"They all leave, Mom! Nadir did...my father did. Erik will too," she cried, her eyes stony, her lower lip trembling, "and I don't want him to go!"

"Oh, honey...you're wrong. You're so wrong. We can be a real family now. Don't you want that?"

She gazed at her mother sorrowfully, her eyes at last filling with tears. "I want it to stay the way it's been, and... and never change. I want Erik to stay f-forever." She wiped at her eyes and turned away from her mother.

"I don't want him to go!" Min shrieked.

She cringed at the slamming of their bedroom door, feeling like the world's biggest loser. Gain a man she loved and admired, only to alienate her daughter. She was a horrible mother, she realized in a flash of insight.

Oh, yeah, Christine. Get smart now, and buried her face in the dish towel.

* * *

Erik cleared the latest call, and stood vibrating with anger. Carla had spread the word of his location and now Erik Mercer was fair game. It was an annoyance that would eventually end, but the vindictiveness behind it made him want to confront Giudicelli and throw the fear of God into her. Or at the least- fear of retribution from her intended victim. At the moment though, he considered it a bad idea. Better yet, Christine thought it a bad idea. Violence would only serve to put a period to his happiness.

He assumed that enough time had passed for a heart to heart between mother and daughter. He caught himself humming a familiar Christmas carol, Carla's big mouth a mere blip on his vexation radar; in spite of her, his joy and contentment bubbled to the forefront of his emotions. Sappy? Yes, probably, but it felt nice. More than nice. It was...amazing. His two beautiful girls, he thought with warm pride, his stride quickening to his... _their_ apartment, which had only today, been filled with laughter and affection as they decorated their tree. He wouldn't be alone for the holidays, and the very idea that after years of solitary Christmas', he would have someone to share it with.

Two someones.

Life was good.

He considered the possibility of a ring to present to Christine. Would she like a Christmas engagement? Yes, he rather thought she would, and Araminta would be happy for them. She was a loving little girl, and her present from him would only add to that happiness, his grin of anticipation succeeding in scaring an elderly couple just exiting their apartment. Erik nodded politely at them and continued on to his own door.

He would show Araminta some new card tricks before she went to bed, and then...and then he and Christine would...

His hand dropped from the doorknob and he leaned against the wall as a fine trembling took hold of his limbs, leaving his knees weak. What if he lost it all? He knew more than anyone how fleeting love and happiness were- hard to attain, sometimes impossible to hold on to. Especially for someone like him. Erik at last, took a shaky breath and straightened up. Well, he wouldn't let it get away. End of story. He took a few deep calming breaths and felt better for it as his elation returned tenfold.

Ridiculous, how easily he could talk himself into a bout of pessimism as he eagerly opened the door...

... to find Christine hunched over the table, sobbing into a dish towel.

* * *

 **Next up- Confrontation. Menacing Medusa. Thankless child.**


	22. How Sharper Than a Serpent's Tooth

**Gingersnaps44-** **You are not alone. Skinny legs and bony knees strikes 2 out of every 4 males ;) Have some of Christine's crazy life to give yours some perspective.**

 **Guest- Together at last...sort of. They'll be tiptoeing around Min until they can convince her that Mom isn't going to lose Erik. Min wants to keep this one ;)**

* * *

 **Due to the limited number of words allowed for chapter titles, half of this one was cut off. The full title is: _How Sharper Than a Serpent's Tooth, is a Thankless Child._**

* * *

 **Once again, make yourselves comfortable.**

* * *

Christine glanced down at the small head bobbing along beside her in Macy's department store, and shifted her bags over to grab her daughter's hand. "You've got an eagle eye, girl. Erik is gonna love his present, don't you think?"

Min mumbled something and kept her eyes straight ahead, looking neither right or left as they walked past Christmas displays of motion activated reindeer and elves. The deer harnessed to Santa's sleigh, pawed at the fake snow while the red and green elves mindlessly sang carols and loaded the sleigh with brightly wrapped boxes of air. The closest she had come to a reaction, had been the gigantic piano installed on the store's lower level. Designed for the movie Big, it was a fully functioning keyboard bought from the defunct FAO Schwarz store. Sixteen feet long with forty-eight keys, customers could play standing on it and plink out their favorite tunes using their feet.

Which Min had done, as she scampered up and down the large black and white keyboard, giving the random notes a total lack of harmony, but it had managed to wring a laugh out of her. Taking advantage of it, Christine had declared, "Imagine what Erik could do with this, Minnie! Hey! What do you say we bring him here after Christmas and have him play something? Bet he draws a crowd!"

"I don't want to," and stepped off of the piano, a mulish look once again taking up residence on her small face.

 _Way to go, Christine. Way to go. You can forget Mommy of the Year._

They hurried through the throng of bumper to bumper shoppers as they rushed to complete their own contribution of consumerism run amok before the big day...

Which left Christine wondering how she could reach her daughter and return their lives to normal.

It had been like this for two days.

Erik had returned to the apartment to find her crying over Min's reaction to the adults sharing the same bedroom. "S-She's so upset," Christine told him miserably, "and it's m-my fault!"

He took a seat at the table and reached for her hand. "She doesn't want me here?" stung at the thought.

Christine shook her head and squeezed his fingers, calm washing over her. "No, it's not that. She thinks you'll leave now...that her mother can only succeed in screwing up a relationship, n-not maintain one."

"You didn't stand a chance with your ex-husband, not being on the endangered species list," he replied dryly. "And Nadir?" Erik merely snorted. "Not much to work with there. What can I do to convince her that I'm not going anywhere?"

"It's not what you say. It's what _we_ do."

He couldn't stop the awful fear that Christine was about to say something devastating to his newfound happiness. That she was about to take it all away.

Just as it always was.

When he raised stricken eyes to hers, she realized that Min wasn't the only one capable of hurting at this point. For all of his intelligence and competence in just about any given situation, in many ways, Erik was still that unloved little boy. She reached for his other hand and held both cradled in hers.

"We'll deal with it, love. Together," and she watched with relief when that desolate look gave way to one of calm, "but I can't allow my child to suffer from her mother's mistakes anymore. And lordy, there's been a few! We'll just have to take this a little slower until I can get her to understand that you aren't leaving."

His thumb circled the back of her hand, not about to point out that he'd already suggested that very thing. Fortunately for him, he wasn't a complete lunatic. "Then that is what we will do. Stop worrying. Araminta will eventually come around. In the meantime we will continue on as before," feeling his own sweet relief at her words. He was on a veritable roller coaster ride of emotions lately, and they were steadily wearing down his reserves.

Christine leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips. "Why couldn't I have met you first all those years ago?"

"Then you wouldn't have Araminta," he pointed out.

"True," she sighed. "My daughter is the _only_ good thing I got from Raoul, the rest is just useless crap floating around in my head."

"Such as?"

Another long-suffering sigh. "How about Diane's Bare-hearted Glassfrog? Honest! It's a little frog from Costa Rica that's the spitting image of Kermit."

"Who?" both of Erik's sparse eyebrows shooting up.

"You know... Kermit the Frog from Sesame Street. Min used to go round all the time saying-"

" _Hi-ho, Kermit the Frog here!"_

Kermit's iconic, back of the throat voice had just issued from her lover's mouth, which was strange on so many levels. "How the _hell_ do you do that, Girard?"

"I used to employ mimicry to amuse my sister." He shrugged. "I became rather good at it. You were saying?"

"Yeah. Right, right," still eying him with a little awe. "Uh...okay. Well, this little guy from Costa Rica is transparent and you can watch his tiny heart thumping madly away. Or how about the Saiga antelope with its huge schnoz?" She tapped the side of her head. "See? Useless. Just like Raoul was. Then there's the Red-lipped batfish with these mm... mm... mmmm-"

Erik had effectively and in the most pleasant way possible, ended her litany of weird animals.

* * *

Christine glanced down at Min as they left Macy's and headed out into the blustery Saturday afternoon. "Hey! We're close to the club. How 'bout we grab some lunch and go see Erik before heading home?"

Min shrugged her shoulders, but Christine caught the spark of interest in the little girl's eyes. She felt a sudden flash of irritation. The best thing to happen to her in...well, in forever, and she was being made to feel guilty about it. When they were seated in a booth, she pasted a smile on her face and said conversationally, "I think it would be okay to open a present early, Minnie. What do you say? Christmas Eve, we'll give Erik one of his. How's that sound?"

With one finger, the girl pushed her glasses back up her nose. "Yeah. He'll be surprised."

"Won't he just?" and winked at Min, gratified to see a faint smile on her daughter's delicate face, a face which had yet to lose the last of the padding from babyhood. Christine experienced a fierce rush of love for her girl, accompanied by a feeling of hope... until she happened to glance up and see who had just entered the cafe.

Nadir Khan was walking toward them with Carla in tow. "Oh, shit," and Christine slumped down in the booth, ready to crawl under the table.

To her dismay, Nadir spied them and headed over. The only thing that made Christine feel somewhat better, was the look of pure loathing on Carla's face as they approached. For some strange reason, Christine was happier when the other woman was not.

Erik was right, she thought glumly. They fought over him like dogs over a very meaty...

Scratch that.

A very bony bone.

"Well, Christine! Min. This is a nice surprise," he began jovially, but was rudely interrupted.

"Is it?" She stared pointedly at his hand which had settled on the tabletop, the nails still bearing the effects of his stint as reluctant motorcycle mechanic, and Christine nodded at his splayed fingers. "You should have asked Erik what gets the grease out. How about a little Gojo?"

Khan whipped his hand out of sight, still fuming over Girard's heavy-handedness. It had been the messiest work he'd ever done to pick up fifty dollars, and had nearly walked out several times. He turned to Giudicelli, and too late, noted the storm clouds gathering on her face. "Carla, perhaps we should-"

"Save it," she bit out, and put a hand on his arm. "It's... _stifling_ in here. Must be all the hot air."

"Oh? Feels a little cold to me," Nadir offered, caught between the chill radiating between the two women.

"Don't worry about it. We're going somewhere else," Carla said, never taking her eyes off of Christine. "Wait for me outside and I'll join you in a minute."

He looked uneasily between the two women. "Why?"

Carla wanted to scream at him. She longed to rip every hair out of the de Chagny bitch's head. She _yearned_ to smack the bitch's spawn until that wide eyed, falsely innocent look was wiped clean off Little Miss Four Eyes' face. Instead, she gave Khan a light push toward the door. "Girl talk, hon. It'll only take a minute. Go on."

His glance at Christine was oddly apologetic. "Sure, sure. Nice seeing you again, Christine. Min," and did as he was told.

"Can't say the same, you loser!" she said loud enough for Nadir to hear, his back stiffening as he absorbed that parting shot. Christine was left wondering again, how she could have been dumb enough to place so much importance on perfect teeth and a charming smile. She knew a crooked grin which was _much_ nicer.

When he was gone, Carla leaned closer to Christine. "Heard you're trying to take my job, de Chagny. Stealing the man wasn't enough for you? Good goddamn riddance to him, I say. It's time I moved on from that nut job _and_ this town."

"Moving on? Oh goody! Don't let the door smack you in the ass," Christine growled, forgetting Min sitting right beside her, not to mention the very rapt diners listening in. "But clue me in, Giudicelli, would you? How can I steal something that wasn't yours in the first place?"

"Good one, lady," a gravelly voice said over her left shoulder.

Christine spun around and stared hard at the booth behind hers, where a middle aged bald man sat watching their exchange with undisguised interest.

She frowned heavily at him and faced front again, speaking before her nemesis could jump in. "You couldn't see what was right in front of you! Erik is sweet and gentle- I'm just glad _you_ never figured it out! Good luck with Khan though," and she jerked her thumb toward the door, "gonna be a bumpy ride there."

"He's not yours either, you dimwitted twat, but you certainly deserve each other! Obviously, you have no idea what the hell you're getting!" Carla's face was livid with anger and contempt. "Your _exceptional man_ was loony tunes in a mental home for three years. Did he tell you he managed to kill two people...one of them his own sister? Did that sweet and gentle soul mention the fact that he strangled a man to death? And while you're at it, ask him to show you his face. Oh, baby, you're in for a fucking shock!"

"Oh yeah?" and Christine searched for something cutting to say. "Well... wait 'til you see Nadir first thing in the morning!" and inwardly cringed.

Not what she had in mind.

Nevertheless, she stood up and went toe to toe with Carla, grinning in satisfaction when the older woman took a step back. " _You_ need to watch that mouth of yours in front of my daughter. And just for the record, I've seen Erik's face!"

"You're lying," her attitude one of patent disbelief.

"Think so?"

Giudicelli shrugged. "Doesn't matter if you have or haven't. He's a bastard for stringing me along, and he'll do the same to you!"

"He never strung you along! You wouldn't leave Erik the hell alone...chasing him like a... a bitch in heat! Remember how you left him five years ago? You took what you could get, and didn't have the decency to stick around and make sure he was okay! Couldn't pay your way anymore, could he, Giudicelli? You and his blood sucking mother, slurped up his talent and good heart, only to toss him away like a used rag!"

Carla swelled with rage. "Don't like to share, de Chagny? Well, neither do I! Ask Erik where he spent those nights he didn't come home. He was more than willing to take what I was offering!" and watched Christine's reaction to the lie, feeling a vicious surge of satisfaction that she hit a nerve. "You're full of shit and high hopes, aren't you? In two years, he hasn't stayed anywhere, and _you_ certainly don't have the equipment to change that!"

"Well, I can see why he's always moving on!" Giudicelli's words were making her mind churn right along with her stomach.

But it didn't stop the torrent of words. For Erik.

"Somehow you always end up betraying him, don't you? Just had to alert the media and drag him through the mud again! No wonder he was afraid of running into _you_ , you old witch!" She waggled a finger in Carla's face. "Put your make-up on this morning with an arthritic hand, did you? Ow...that bites!"

"Old witch, is it?" Carla's painted lips drew back from her teeth. "I'm betting your _bitch_ will get tired of catering to you, and won't wait long to dump your skinny little ass!"

"Well, don't hold your breath 'til he does! An old broad like you just might pass out from lack of oxygen!"

"Why you..."

"And, Darla? Just so you understand me. The only thing I find nutty about Erik, is him thinking you were worth his time in the first place! He's solid gold. You're just a piece of crummy tin!" Christine spat, her face white and furious.

Carla, just like the whistling tea kettle, at last boiled over, launching herself at Christine, and reaching for a handful of her hair. Min screamed in fright and outrage, preparing to go to her mother's aid, and Christine shoved her daughter back down on the seat, bracing for a collision with Giudicelli's sharp red nails. Thankfully, help came in the form of the restaurant manager and a pair of cops just coming through the door.

"Ladies, ladies! Please," the manager exclaimed, as one of the cops shook his head in disgust at the notion of combating females heeding the word _please_. He simply elbowed the little man aside, and grabbed Carla by both arms, giving her a firm yank.

" _Ladies_?" the bald man behind Christine said with a coarse laugh. "What I wouldn't give to see the foul mouthed curvy one in a mud wrestlin' match! I'd make book on that hellcat."

Christine whirled around on him, and he raised his hands in appeasement. "No offense, but she'd wipe the floor with you!"

"None taken," she acceded graciously. "She does have a foul mouth."

The manager of the restaurant looked sternly at Carla, yet kept his distance. "Ma'am, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave."

"She's leavin', all right!" the younger of the two officers told him. "A little cool down is what she needs. Who started it?" and a chorus of voices piped up. The gist of it pointed to Carla, and the older cop was still deciding what to do with her, when Carla kindly decided for him.

Still struggling in the meaty hands of the policeman, she addressed him in no uncertain terms, "Get your goddamned hands off me, you prick!" and wrenching an arm free, followed it up with a swipe at him and a kick to his shin.

Not a smart move.

"Ow! Oh, count on it, lady," the older cop seethed. "Just as soon as I cuff yours. I'm runnin' you in for disturbing the peace, fighting in public, and attacking an officer of the law. And I'll even throw in makin' me miss my lunch." It was a done deal when he held her arms out for his partner to cuff her wrists. "And looky here! You get a lovely set of bracelets to wear!" he added snidely. He was hungry and had been looking forward to the blue plate special, and now they'd have to run the mouthy broad in and get her booked.

Christine, feeling tremendous relief that the holy terror was leaving, waved to her as Carla was led away in cuffs, still spitting like a scalded cat, but Giudicelli wasn't done yet.

"Tell Hannibal Lecter he can take care of his own fuckin' mother from now on!" she shouted, giving Christine one more murderous look before shooting a death glare over her shoulder at her captor. "Let go of me, you fuckining idiot!"

"You're the one in handcuffs, lady. _Now_ who's the idiot?" the older cop returned with weary resignation.

"Bye bye, Darla," Christine waved. "Enjoy your stay in the slammer! Bye bye. Happy trails," her voice barely wobbling, as the diners one and all applauded to see Carla go.

The manager eyed Christine speculatively before walking away, and the talking and noise which had died down, started up again.

Embarrassed and queasy when she looked at Min's shocked face, Christine said quietly, "She's a... she's a...a... an icky icky woman, Min, so don't place a lot of store in what she just said."

 _Icky?_ _Seriously?_ _That's the only word you could_ _come up with_ _to describe Giudicelli?_ _There must be tons of five dollar words out there to describe a female psychopath._ _Where's Girard when you need_ _him_ _?_

Her daughter stared up at her white-faced. "I'm not hungry anymore. Can we go home now? I-I don't feel so good."

Christine nodded in defeat, her heart racing from the cat fight. She could give as well as she got, but arguments, especially the ugly one which had just taken place, always left her with a sour stomach. She'd had her fair share of squabbles in the theatre, had to deal with rowdy patrons sometimes in the piano bars until the bouncer bounced them out, but those had been a little less personal than this one.

For the hundredth time, she wondered how Erik had managed to get his hands dirty (and other body parts) with a nasty piece of work like Carla. She was the type to kill her mate after sex and eat her own young.

Recalling her own association with Nadir, she shuddered.

They had both been chumps to entertain relationships with the flotsam and jetsam that were Giudicelli and Khan.

Christine felt all the curious eyes burning into the back of her head as she and Min walked to the door. Someone calling her name, caused her to glance up to see Kendrick Lloyd and Griffin Rhodes making their way toward them.

"Hey, Erik's ladies! Well, well. I like your style." Kendrick raised her hand in a high five, and Christine to be polite, returned it.

"She was itching for a fight when she came in," Christine protested, "so I just decided to give her one. She got what she deserved."

"Won't argue with that! Did ya'll know she got canned today?" asked the young black woman, her once purple hair now streaked a bright vermilion.

"Canned?"

"As in... _her ass_! That she-devil lit into Girard the minute she came in to work this morning. He wasn't fazed in the least 'til Giudicelli started bad-mouthin' you. Whew! Did she ever!"

"Erik had a fight with her?"

Griffin smiled. "Yeah, you could say that...one which included some crude surgery. He ripped her a new one, calling her names I didn't even know existed, and then practically frog marched her to Abba's office. You two must share the same wave lengths... you surely do have each others' backs."

"I'll tell it, Rhodes!" Lloyd refusing to allow the guitarist to butt in. "No one knows what went on behind that door, but when she came out, that bitch looked like murder wasn't far off for anyone dumb enough to get in her way," Kendrick laughed, shaking her head. "Giudicelli's mugshot. That's gonna be one hell of a picture! Wait 'til Erik hears this!"

"Is he having lunch at the club?" Christine asked politely, wanting only to go home now.

Griffin winked at a strangely silent Min, and jumped in. "Lunch? Erik? Naw. He was in the bar area on the grand, going through one sweet repertoire. _He_ says he's rusty and needs the practice. Who's he kidding? I know he had himself an impromptu audience when we left."

Kendrick gave him a dirty look for stealing her thunder, and eyed Christine thoughtfully. "Myself, I think he's got plans that might not include LipSync. Never could understand why he settles for peanuts when he could have pecans, ya know?"

"Maybe he prefers peanuts," Griffin said helpfully.

"Don't over-work that brain, Rhody. Come on, let's get back before Girard decides to rip _us_ a new one."

They made their goodbyes, Christine and Min following suit, and Christine wondered what her daughter was making of this latest bit of news. From the pinched look she now wore...

Nothing good.

* * *

She was startled when Erik arrived at the apartment not long after they did.

"What are you doing home already?" and quickly added, "Not that I'm not thrilled," and kissed him to prove it. A short one and only after making sure the coast was clear.

"Rhodes told me about what happened, so I cleared it with Abba. Are you all right? Min?" He had lightly grasped her arms, fingers curling around her elbows, his eyes intent upon her.

She told him about the argument in the restaurant and he became, as expected, angered once more by news of the fight. "She had no right! No right at all to take anything out on you and Araminta," he snapped, barely able to stand still as his lanky strides took him from the kitchen to their front window and back again. "She was fired today for walking off the stage the other night _and_ shooting off her mouth. It has nothing to do with you!"

"Not according to Carla." Christine put a finger up to her lips and nodded toward the bedroom door where Min was cleaning the gerbil's cage. "She informed me _loudly,_ that I stole you right out from under her nose, and proceeded to treat my daughter to an extra helping of her nastiness. That woman has a screw loose, Erik. I don't know what's stopped it from popping out completely. She even said the two of you were-"

When Christine dropped her eyes from his and studied the floor with great interest, he grew apprehensive and said impatiently, "Well? Go on. Finish that thought."

"She said that you uh... you and she spent some quality time together recently.

"In the same bed."

He searched her eyes. "She lied to you," not aware he held his breath.

"I know," smiling warmly at him.

He began to breathe again, very happy that Carla had been led away in handcuffs. He only wished he could have been there to see it.

"Thankfully, I doubt if Min even realized what Giudicelli was saying."

He grunted in response. "Thank God for small miracles! Araminta would truly hate Erik then, but I'm glad she's gone. If not, she may have found herself some night going head first into Aron's bass drum."

"Pity the drum," she replied, a dimple appearing in one cheek. His need for Carla's blood, amused and alarmed her. "What are you going to do now for a replacement?"

"Already found her."

She felt deeply let-down by this news, but did her best to hide it. "That's great. When does she start?"

"I don't know. When can you?"

"Really?"

"Really."

"I like your sense of fair play! Sack the ex and hire the new girl. Does this mean you're my mentor now? I _love_ it!"

He shrugged negligently. "I love the new girl. Why not?" He admired the pink flush on her cheekbones, and the obvious excitement of singing with him again. "The new girl has a well developed sense of protectiveness for the frontman, which he appreciates more than he can say," his eyes relaying what his touch could not.

"Yes, and I heard the frontman defended the new girl when she couldn't be there to defend herself. The new girl appreciates it more than _she_ can say," her eyes conveying what her touch could not. She wanted him so very badly then.

Seeing that look, he took a hesitant step toward her and stopped. "A-Actually, Abba wants to see you directly after Christmas about becoming our soprano."

"I'm...floored," she managed to say, just stopping herself from jumping up and down. _So_ _mature, Christine._ "I'll have to give notice at the theatre, so it might be hectic for a week or so, but thank you. Thank you," she said fervently, and unable to stand the distance any longer, Christine looked toward the closed bedroom door, before closing the gap and slipping her arms around his waist.

One tiny hug.

A small kiss.

"Give me a smooch. I kind of like you all hot and bothered with your eyes smokin' like that. I love you," she said fiercely.

"And I you," feeling a wave of pleasure at her words. Although at times, he found himself idly wondering if Christine was in need of glasses. Smoking hot, indeed. Still... no one had ever treated him as a love object, and he quite liked it. He eagerly obliged her as his arms folded her close to his chest, his new tattoo lodging a faint protest. It was beginning to itch. "Come down to the club tonight," he whispered in her ear. "You can sit in the wings."

"Who's filling in 'til then?"

"We're improvising for the night. A little rearranging will do the trick."

"What about Min?"

"Min too. In fact..." He absentmindedly stroked her back.

"What's goin' on in that convoluted brain of yours, Girard?"

"Thinking about getting rid of the bike even sooner."

"Already? I thought you wanted to work on it some more."

"Ah, but it's difficult to fit both of my ladies on the back of a bike."

She thought about her daughter's silence on the way home today and shook her head. "Don't get rid of it just yet. You take your time with it. We'll get around like we've always done 'til then. Besides... Min's been acting funny after Carla's rant this afternoon." She thought a moment. " _Funnier._ I think we'll just stay home tonight."

He hid his disappointment well. "Is she still upset about us?"

Christine frowned as she chewed her lower lip. "I don't know, to tell the truth. I _thought_ she was coming round earlier, then Giudicelli showed up and said some really harsh things."

"Such as?"

"Among other things... your sticking power."

"I'm not exactly certain why that particular conversation came up," his lips virtually disappearing altogether. "I told you, she lied about us. I-"

"Not _that_ kind of sticking power! You don't stay long in one spot," she elaborated. "You up and leave. Not the best thing for Min to hear. Besides, I can vouch for your stamina, so you have no worries there."

"Oh," he responded, mollified. "What else?"

Christine trailed her fingers across his chest. "Your ah...your...your face," she said finally.

"I wonder if I could beat a murder rap?" Erik's bony chin dropped down to the top of her head, the fragrant scent of her hair calming him. Like flowers. Christine's hair smelled like flowers. Something springy. _Tulips? Daffodils?_

"Don't know, but I'll help hold her down 'til the deed's done," she promptly replied, and added just in case he thought she was serious. "That was a joke, by the way. We're done with the witch."

"That also explains why Araminta never came out to greet me," his voice heavy with frustration. "I would enjoy a little chat with Carla, I think," his eyes narrowed and gleaming with malice.

"Hey, you! You _did_ hear the part about leaving Carla alone, right?"

He snorted. "Of course I did, Christine! I was merely being wishful. You think me insane?" and before she could reply, added hastily, "No, do not answer that!"

She shrugged. "Then we're on the same page. I did explain a few things to Min...about your sister...about your anger and grief when she was killed." She placed her hand on his masked cheek, the silicone smooth and cool beneath her palm. "She'll come around. If she's anything like her mom, it takes her a while to process things and it doesn't help to crowd her," and deftly changed the subject. "What are your plans for tomorrow?"

"The same as yours," he replied succinctly.

"Good answer," she approved, grinning. "Hey! Give me a few big words that describe Carla."

"Why?"

Christine shrugged. "Just curious what the boy genius can come up with.

" _And_ it makes me feel better."

"I am all for that. Mm...let me see," and began tapping his chin with a spidery finger. "Vociferous virago. Yes?" At her eager nod, Erik thought of another. "Ah... a howling harridan," to which he heard a loud snort from his lady. "Menacing Medusa." Highly amused by her childish need for a little name calling, he blithely egged her on. "More?"

"I like that last one!" She looked admiringly at him. "But...have you got anything that begins with B?"

"Bloodthirsty...um... barracuda," he proclaimed, his answering grin, crooked, "but let me know if _this_ is acceptable to you." He bent down, lips lightly grazing her ear, and whispered instead what he would like to do to her.

"Ooh, Mr. Girard. You're going to put that silver tongue _where_?"

Erik graciously explained.

* * *

"My mom is not going to like this one little bit," Min told the other girl in a low voice.

"How is she gonna know unless _you_ tell her?" Angie said reasonably.

Min rolled her eyes. "You don't know my mom."

The boy in front of them turned around and hissed angrily, "Shut up, you guys!"

"Why?" Angie asked, her voice quavering a little, despite her efforts to be brave. "You said the place is empty."

Her brother smiled pityingly at her. "It is, you doofus! For now. There's some bums that hang out in here, but I watched them leave an hour ago. They panhandle over on Dailey Avenue, so they'll be gone for a few hours. We're not supposed to be here, so you better stop your mouth from runnin' or the cops might come and drag us off to jail!"

"Not good," Min whispered to Angie. "That would definitely make my mom mad. Her daughter, the jailbird."

Angie giggled nervously. "You could hop through the bars and fly away."

They were on the ground floor of what used to be the old fire station, a once integral part of the borough they lived in. Built in 1883, it was the home of one of the city's first horse drawn fire brigades, and in its heyday, the bells would clang a warning as teams of draft horses left the station, rushing off to battle the thick smoke and flames of any of the surrounding structures unlucky enough to become engulfed in a conflagration. Gangs of excited boys would trail after the firemen, doing their best to keep up with the galloping horses, and would inevitably, be left far behind. The 1920's saw the last of the horse-driven engines, and the introduction of the fire truck. Until 2001, it was the proud home of Engine 43 and Ladder 19 before plans had gone forward for a brand new state of the art building a half mile away. Their last contribution to the city from the old station, was on September 11 when four of their number perished in the terrorist attack. The old firehouse had sunk into obscurity, becoming a derelict and eyesore, the temporary stopping place of vagrants and those whose business was best conducted cloaked in secrecy.

Min's presence in the old building had begun on a dare, and she was already regretting her part in their little adventure. Her mother would kill her, and ground her sorry butt until she was a stooped old woman. More importantly, the place was scary and dark as she searched the thick shadows, expecting any minute for something to leap out and grab her with decaying arms, dragging her kicking and screaming to a place where no one could follow.

She squeaked and jumped a foot when something grabbed her arm.

Angie let go of her quickly, mumbling an apology. "I tripped over somethin'," she said in a harsh whisper.

"What?" her friend whispered back, immediately scanning the darkness surrounding them.

"My other foot," Angie replied, embarrassed.

By now, Min was thinking gory thoughts of arms and legs flung willy nilly by a murderous creature with razor sharp teeth and slavering jaws.

Some _thing_ resembling one of the zombies she regularly blasted to smithereens in her game...

She could almost hear their shuffling feet.

A groan.

Her eyes continued darting all around her, the words on the very tip of her tongue to suggest leaving this place. She had been given permission to visit with Angie, and the two girls had spent part of the morning in the weedy back yard behind Angie's home. The cold weather had moderated, the sun shining weakly as they played. Christine had given her daughter strict orders to stay in the yard and go no further, but a still sullen Min had decided to ignore this. The wheedling of Angie's eleven year old brother Dustin, had helped put paid to Christine de Chagny's obedient little girl.

But if her mother ever found out that Min had disobeyed her, she would be in a world of hurt. She had awoken that morning, trudging out to the kitchen to find her mother and Erik sitting at the table drinking coffee and looking moony eyed at each other. Christine's mood was mellow and Min had taken advantage of it by asking if she could visit with Angie.

"Can I, Mom?" her manner distantly polite as she made sure not to glance Erik's way. She had heard the angry woman yesterday... who hadn't? when she said he would leave them someday. Min didn't care about the mask or what it hid. Curious? Yeah, that, but it little mattered to her what he looked like. She was used to the mask. The mask was cool. _Erik_ was cool. What really mattered, was that someday she would come home from school and find him gone and her mother crying like she'd never ever be happy again. So to protect herself, Min had begun to pull back from him, getting used to Erik being gone. That thought alone could clog her throat with tears and make it hard to swallow. She looked up at her mother who was talking.

"...any further than the back yard? I mean it, Min," giving her the serious mommy look. "There's too many crazies around anymore."

"Uh uh. We're gonna help Dustin make a pond for the ducks."

"Ducks?" Erik reached out and tugged lightly on her pony tail, a thing he always did, and it always made her giggle.

This time she didn't react, merely shrugging. "We won't get wet. We're just diggin' in the dirt."

"Oh, Minnie, the ground will be too hard."

"You always say I need fresh air and sunshine," Min replied tonelessly.

Erik duly noted Min's aloof manner, and wondered how to get on her good side once more. "Can't argue with that. What kind of ducks?" he asked, one eyelid drooping in a slow wink when he glanced Christine's way.

"Uh...he doesn't have any. We're making the pond, and _then_ the ducks will show up."

"I see," her mother said, keeping a straight face. What duck would be dumb enough to visit this part of the city? "Well then, have some breakfast to build up your strength, and we'll walk you over there. Won't we, Erik?"

"Actually, I thought Araminta might like a ride on the bike," hastening to add, "it's not far and the weather is milder, so-"

It was on the tip of Christine's tongue to say no, but one glance at a watchful Erik waiting for her answer, had her nodding in the affirmative. It was a matter of trusting him, and she did. She turned to her daughter. "I don't see why not. Min?"

The girl shrugged, the adults not fooled at all. Min's enthusiasm was hard to miss, derailing for the moment, her mission to distance herself from Erik. "Guess so," her poker face in evidence, her eyes shining with excitement.

"What about you and me going out?" Christine asked him, "I can't go on the back of a bike," she protested.

He kept his eyes on the little girl. "I take this lovely lady over to Angela's and come back for you, leaving the bike here. I'll splurge on a cab."

"Now, _that's_ my man! We'll need the room for packages."

"Ouch! I should have realized you had an ulterior motive," his voice pained, but it was obvious, even to Min that Erik was more than willing to go along.

Christine took jam out of the fridge and got two slices of bread from the loaf on the counter. "You okay with the shopping part? I know it's not your thing to be surrounded by a crowd. You don't have to-"

"Oh, but I will, simply from the goodness of my heart," he stated loftily, "Although, it's not as bad as you might think. People rarely look up from their cell phones anymore, let alone notice those around them. Even less during a shopping season in full swing."

Christine sniggered, recalling a woman she saw at the mall, face flopping into a water fountain while walking and texting. "Right as usual, Girard."

I don't _have_ to, you understand, for we are on an equal footing, you and I," wagging a forefinger between them. "Fifty/fifty. But who knows? Perhaps someday it will be my turn. For that reason alone, I am content to go where most men fear to tread."

"Gee, that was nicely put, Girard. Nicely put," she jeered. "Hasn't anyone told you yet that your percentage is more like _forty_ percent? Which gives me the clear majority."

"I thought you said you weren't very good at math?"

"I lied."

"I need to watch you a little closer, don't I?"

"Mm. Does that mean you'll accompany me into the lingerie department?"

"It means that I will wait for you just outside of it," he replied mildly.

"Spoken like a true male," Christine said, smiling at her daughter.

Seeing them so happy, Min felt an answering grin trying to break out, until she remembered that she was pulling away from Erik; except for her uncle, the men in their lives couldn't be counted on, and Erik wouldn't be any different. Several times she had thought to warn her mother against liking him too much- that it would end up only the two of them someday, just like it always did, but she remained silent. She was quiet now, as she poured herself some cereal and her mom made toast.

Erik pushed his chair back and joined Christine at the counter. She nudged him with a hip. "No stopping for Chianti, right?"

"Right. No wine for me and no whining from you," he said, deadpan. "You do have a tendency to get grumpy from time to time. But to keep you happy, we can visit the Furniture Barn, if you like and look at couches."

"Really? You're not putting me on?" her eyes wide and hopeful.

He was forced to hide a smile. "Didn't I just say we would?"

"Yeah, you did. I think we can afford it since we'll both be making more, but for the record, I don't get grumpy," she responded, sounding grumpy. "I'm just fatalistic, not being used to a man promising something and actually delivering." She spun on the spot, picturing the right color and style for the living room.

"May I point out the fresh paint in the kitchen, and the new floor beneath your feet?" he told her indignantly. "I may be many things, but I don't go back on my word. We can perhaps choose something and put money down, but don't expect it before Christmas."

"No, I won't," she said, her hands itching to reach for him, and give her man a proper thank you, but Min was coolly surveying them, her head bouncing back and forth between the two adults.

Erik slipped out the door and soon brought the Phantom around to the front of the brownstone where Christine and Min waited. The girl watched in wide eyed silence as a dark rumbling shadow pulled in to the curb, its rider merely an extension of the ominous looking machine.

Min sighed and glanced at her mother. "Erik's so...he's so...he's so... _different_."

"He can't help his face, Min, so don't-"

"No," she protested. I-It's not that. He's different in a good way."

"Like mother, like daughter," she muttered beneath her breath. "You hold on to Erik, baby, you hear me?"

"I will."

"And, Minnie? Give him a chance, will you? He's staying put this time," Min's only response, a tiny shake of the head.

Erik killed the engine, swinging a long leg over the gunslinger-style seat, and approached them with a black helmet dangling from one finger. He carefully slid it over Min's light brown hair, buckling it beneath her chin, surveying the little girl all bundled up in a blue corduroy coat and pink plaid scarf.

"Ready?" he asked her.

She nodded solemnly, her heart pounding with a mixture of nerves and excitement. Wait 'til Angie got a load of her on the back of Erik's motorcycle. She'd turn green.

Christine stood hovering nearby as he settled the girl on the bike and mounted in front of her, booted feet braced to each side of the low slung machine. "Scared?"

"Uh uh. I'm with Erik."

The adults traded looks, Erik feeling a tightening in his chest at the girl's words. "Hold on to my waist. I'm not going fast, so relax and we'll be there before you know it."

"Not too soon, 'kay?"

"No," he agreed. "You get the scenic route. Tell Mom goodbye."

"Bye!" Min waved furiously at her mother and Christine waved back.

"I'm fixing your fav for dinner!" she called to the little girl.

Min gave her mother a thumbs up. She loved her mom's meatloaf.

Min's thin arms were around Erik's waist, gripping him tightly, her small face nearly swallowed by the black helmet. What Christine _could_ see of her daughter was the large grin that stretched from ear to ear.

And Christine was more than happy to see it.

He heard the slight tinkle of charms just before he kick started the machine, and revved the engine a few times for the girl's benefit. He left the curb smoothly, Araminta's small arms wrapped securely around his middle.

He loved the child. She was the first to offer him friendship and he would never forget that. He would provide for her needs and give her the security that all children required. The attention that all children required.

But one thing was perfectly clear to him; he would wait until the issue between mother and daughter was resolved before he proposed to Christine. As fond as he was of Araminta, he wouldn't allow their marriage to be sidetracked by whatever the girl was going through. With time, she would discover that Erik was here to stay.

He glanced down at her wrist to see the LipSync bracelet in its place of honor, and he smiled. Apparently her problem with him didn't extend to the bracelet. Only rarely did she wear the London charms, and he remembered the drawing she had made for him as a way to say thank you.

"I can make you more," Min had shyly told him. "How 'bout one with you, me, and Scooby?"

Erik had met Christine's grin as she mouthed, _I told you she likes you._

He had replied, "Can't have too many." He now had ten pieces of her art with varying subjects, but mostly the two of them engaging in different pursuits. Watching television. Erik with the band. He smiled to see Reggie's spiked hair, weirdly yellow and nearly as high as corn, and Sawyer Aron's dreadlocks looking more like a Gorgon's head of snakes. Several of the pictures had them playing computer games, another, the three of them sitting at the kitchen table playing cards. In every drawing he was so thin, he nearly wasn't in the picture at all. Christine had laughed, pointing out the obvious, "My daughter the artist! Oh, she nailed you, Girard. Long black hair, a twig for your body, and sticks for arms and legs. The likeness is uncanny!" but her arms around him and a lingering kiss, took the sting from her words.

Arriving at Angie's, Erik gave the bike throttle, and Min was secretly ecstatic when Angie came running out of the house, goggling at the sight of her friend behind Erik on the sleek motorcycle. He helped the girl off and gently removed the helmet. "Well? No bugs in your teeth?"

Min was about to grin and show Erik her bright bug-less teeth, when her beginning smile faltered and died. "Uh uh," she replied, before turning to Angie.

"Wait until summer. You'll enjoy it more with the warmer weather."

"I don't think so," she said stiffly, afraid to look that far into the future.

Erik regarded her quietly, struggling to find a way back to their easy affection once more. "It's all right, Araminta. Not everyone takes to riding a motorcycle. Don't worry, we'll be back later and pick you up in a-"

"No!" she interrupted him, her voice climbing. "It was okay, Erik. I liked it."

Min wanted to turn right around and do it all over again. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him. How scared she was that he wouldn't be around one of these days. She wanted to beg him to never leave-

She bit her lip hard to keep the words in.

He watched her carefully. "What is it, child?"

Min shrugged and turned her face away. "Nothing," her chin wobbling, near tears.

"Talk to me," he encouraged her.

"I _said_... nothing! Just leave me alone, okay?" she snapped, as Angie reached them.

"Wow! That's so neat, Min!" Angie didn't stop to notice her strangely quiet friend, instead her eyes focused on the bike and the man once again astride it. "Gee, Erik... could I go for a ride sometime?"

"If your parents permit it, I don't see why not," but his eyes never left Min. The girl stood there miserably, pretending he meant absolutely nothing to her.

Before Angie could answer him, Min tugged her friend away, the other girl protesting. "Get off!"

"We'll see you at four!" Erik finally said, before taking off in a rumble of twin V's and a rush of wind and exhaust fumes.

"Hey! No fair, Min de Chagny! I only wanted to look at it," Angie cried, yanking her arm away. "You get to have all the fun," she sighed. "He's so cool. Wish my dad was more like Erik."

"Just be glad your dad isn't going anywhere," Min said glumly.

"Huh?"

"Nothin'," Min replied. Her and her mom had been together forever. They would get along just fine when he left them.

Now she just had to make herself believe it.

Her heart heavy, she forced her fears away. "Come on. Race ya!"

They quickly ran out to the back yard, joining Dustin who had a shovel for each of them. They worked industriously for all of forty-five minutes, the boy having swiped at a lock of sweaty hair in the cool, early winter sun and declaring a break. They hadn't got very far digging in the hard ground, and their enthusiasm had dimmed substantially. They trooped into the house for a snack and the two girls opted to watch a movie until Dustin plopped into a chair and announced, "Let's go explorin'. You've watched The Goonies hundreds of times already."

"Where?" Angie asked, her eyes never leaving the screen as the kids discovered the pirate ship and One Eyed Willy.

"The firehouse. I wanna see the fire pole they slid down when they got a call."

"Anyone ever fall off it?"

"All the time," Dustin said, not knowing and not caring. "Anyway, we can look for cool stuff to bring outta there."

"Yeah!" Min declared nodding at the TV. "We could have our own adventure just like Mikey and the Goonies, and find our own treasure," joining in on this harmless game. After all, they were safe in Angie's living room.

"What kind?" her friend asked, not really wanting to leave the couch.

"Maybe a fireman's hat!" Dustin persisted. "Come on, let's go."

Angie glanced at Min and shrugged. "Why not? It's better than what we've been doing."

"I can't, Angie," Min's unease growing. "I-I promised my mom I'd stay in the yard."

"Aw... you're nothing but a chicken shit, de Chagny!" Justin pronounced with a sneer. "Scared of your old lady and scared of explorin'. Go home ya little baby."

"I am not a little baby!" Min declared hotly.

"Are too!"

"Am not!"

"Prove it then! I _dare_ ya!" Dustin jeered.

Angie looked at her friend beseechingly- and clinched Min's disobedience. "I want a fireman's hat too."

She wasn't a baby and she would prove it. Besides...maybe she could get Erik a fireman's hat. Or she could if she wanted to. If he stuck around. "Okay. I-I'll go," giving Dustin a defiant look.

Which led them to walking through a few alleys and garbage strewn lots, the detritus of months if not years, dotting the landscape before them. Empty liquor bottles, dented beer cans...dead soldiers all, alongside potato chip bags and old newspapers, caught on the stiffening breeze, and scurrying before it as if being chased by a wind sprite. Both girls stopped to stare at a small wrinkled balloon, lying beneath a sickly looking sumac tree, the few leaves still clinging to its branches, crisp and brown. Curiosity aroused by the substance in the tip of the balloon thingy, Angie reached down to give it a poke. Her brother irritably knocked her hand away.

"Don't touch that, Ange! It can kill ya."

"How? It's just a little balloon with stuff in it," but both girls cautiously stepped back.

Dustin searched his mind for an appropriate answer. He wasn't sure himself what it was; he only knew he had asked his father that very question after having seen one in nearly the same circumstances.

"Dad said that stuff inside it can end a man's life if he ain't careful." He remembered other words as his father eyed him pensively. " 'It leads to chatterboxes like you askin' too many questions.' "

"The two girls eyed the used condom with clinical interest, and Angie began searching for something to jab it with.

"What is it then?" Min asked.

He didn't know what it was and he didn't like telling them he didn't. Instead, he gave his sister a slight push. "Come on... come on! Move it."

Min looked at her friend who shrugged her shoulders, and they continued on their way through the weedy lot, nettles and bits of long grass, sere and brown, clinging to their clothes as they approached the boarded up firehouse. Their steps slowed as the old building became so very much larger, taking on a decidedly unwelcoming appearance even with a blue sky overhead, the feeble sun dusting their upturned faces with scant heat.

Min studied the abandoned firehouse, its sinister air as it crouched there, seeming to watch them, waiting as they stepped inside its hungry maw so it could swallow them whole. She felt a ripple of fright, which surprisingly wasn't altogether unpleasant. They were having an adventure. It was exhilarating to explore where no one had been for years and years, and she said so to her companions.

Justin laughed outright at that. "There's bums goin' in and outta there all the time! They live in the firehouse."

She stopped. "Then why are _we_ goin' in there?"

"Because I saw them leave not long ago. We got time to look around before they come back."

Min's feet started moving again, even before she gave them the order to shuffle forward, _They_ obviously saw nothing wrong in where they were going. The old building came closer and closer, its boarded up windows like eyes shuttered and dim, discouraging entry.

Getting in hadn't been difficult. Scouting the area for anyone watching them, they found a broken window on the ground floor which had been boarded over, but was now exposed. An old plastic bucket nearby had been used to get through the window, and Dustin had gone in first, followed by Angie, then Min.

It was icy cold in the interior, the weak December sun unable to penetrate very far through the boarded windows, save for a faint bit of light. Min gazed around her, ready to bolt if she so much as heard even the tiniest noise, but all was silent and still. They were in what would have been the station captain's office, a room of small dimensions, now bare of furniture, but for a dented metal waste can on its side and a scattering of old leaves and scraps of yellowed, brittle paper.

Dustin moved toward the open doorway beyond. He looked back impatiently at the two girls. "What're ya waitin' for? Come on."

"Where?" Angie inquired nervously.

"Geez," he said in disgust, and pointed to the doorway. "Where ya think? Out there. Now come _on._ "

Min, wishing she was anywhere but here, put one foot in front of the other, and joined Dustin, Angie following closely.

The light in the equipment bay was just enough to make out their surroundings, but Dustin flicked on his flashlight anyway, the beam picking out a vast empty space as he swept it around them. None of the three wondered _why_ it had been so easy to find a way in.

Or that they were being watched.

"I remember a picture I saw once of a row of equipment right beside the trucks. I'll bet it's still there," the boy enthused.

Min's enthusiasm was beginning to wane, thinking the only thing in the old building besides them, was dirt and cobwebs...

...and dark corners where piles of refuse seemed to be moving on their own. "I don't like this," Angie said, crowding up against her brother and Min. "Something's movin' in the corner."

"Nah. It's just the light making it look that way," as he poked busily through useless bits of paper and discarded rags.

"I don't like this place, Dustin, and there's nothing here. Let's _go_."

"Didn't we come here to explore? Huh?" he said in an exasperated tone, wiping hands on his jeans. The rags smelled bad.

"Then you go ahead." Angie glanced at her friend. "Min and me are leavin'."

"Okay okay, ya little whiner!" he spat, having no wish to stay behind in the echoing innards of a dead building. "First, I want to see what's through that doorway over there, then we'll get outta here."

"You mean the one _way_ over there?" Min asked.

"Yeah, that one. Then we'll leave, but not before," he stated firmly, and as one, the girls began hesitantly moving forward again.

Their footfalls sounded awfully loud as they crossed the equivalent of no-man's land, cautiously approaching the scratched and gouged wooden door which was partially open. To their left was an arched opening, walled like the rest of the interior in dirty enamel tiling, once white. Unbeknownst to them, it led to a hallway which ended in the dining hall for the company, and beyond that, the kitchen. The doorway before them was the firemen's common room. Both girls crowded Dustin as he pushed it open and shone the light around.

This room wasn't nearly as empty as the rest of the station, for this room showed recent habitation.

A filthy mattress, its stuffing leaking onto the floor was shoved into one corner, and the smell of burnt wood permeated the air. The cause became obvious when they spied the remnants of a campfire in the furthest corner from them. Debris was scattered across the floor, all of it worthless. "Aww...it's empty," he said, voice laced with disappointment. He kicked the wall savagely, and yelped at the pain in his foot. He spied a bundle of rags and limped his way over to them, poking through them with the toe of one sneaker.

The three walked slowly around the room, their search for treasure of any kind, becoming more and more a child's fantasy. Min's nose twitched at the odor of old cabbage and stale sweat. She was more than ready to leave, this trip being a complete bust. Angie's house was looking better and better.

"Come on, Dustin! There's nothin' here! Let's go or I'll tell Mommy!"

"Awright, Awright!" he snapped. "You're a pain in my ass, ya know that?"

Min listened with half an ear as she caught the dull glint of something in the corner, glancing off of the flashlight beam. When the other two turned to leave, she darted forward and scooped it into the palm of her hand, closing her fingers over it and slipping it into her pocket.

The boy paused to glance into the darkness beyond the arched doorway, and his sister took issue with him.

"Come _on,_ Dustin! Or I'm tellin'!"

Dustin raised his hand to give her a shove, but thought better of it, instead turning and starting back the way they had come. He had every intention of coming back with his pals instead of sniveling girls, who nearly pissed their pants every time a mouse rustled in the woodwork. What good were they to anyone?

Min clutched her souvenir knowing if she showed it to the other two, she would have it taken from her by Justin. She kept quiet...just barely.

They exited the firehouse, the girls breathing in the fresh air with relief, and truth be told, Dustin as well, all glad to be out in the clearer light of day and away from the oppressive atmosphere of the abandoned building. Min was eager for the chance to look at her find alone, and her steps slowed accordingly, letting brother and sister get a little ahead of her, bickering as they usually did. Quickly, she pulled her hand out of her pocket, opening her fingers. There sitting on her palm, encrusted with nearly two decades of dirt, was a brass button embossed with letters and numbers. She shoved her glasses back up her nose and squinted, rubbing a thumb across the raised figures. Engine 43. That's what it looked like. She peeked at the two ahead of her again, then back to her treasure. She had got something out of their adventure after all. She put it back in her pocket and hurried to catch up with Angie. It wasn't until they had arrived back at the house, that she happened to glance down at her wrist where her beloved LipSync bracelet had place of honor just that morning.

Her _bare_ wrist.

It was gone.

* * *

 **Next chapter- Pillow talk. Alone in the dark. A delighted demon.**


	23. Cry Havoc and Let Slip the Dogs of War

Christine stretched contentedly beside him in the bed, wearing a satisfied smile on lips which had been thoroughly and ruthlessly kissed.

She hadn't done badly herself, noticing a particularly large love bite right over his Adam's apple. She ran the tip of her forefinger over the purplish bruise and replaced it with her mouth, feeling a pleasant languor stealing over her. She could sleep beside him very easily if time wasn't a factor. Her body had hummed with pleasure right along with his, her hands just as greedy as his, as they enjoyed a few stolen minutes before they were plunged back into their lives again. She had to admit though, that stealing these warm intimate moments lent them a very sweet and naughty edge.

"If you have a turtleneck sweater, I'd wear it if I were you."

"Why?" Erik asked drowsily, stroking the smooth skin of her hip.

"You are well and truly marked, love. I just branded you with a nice big hickey."

"I very much prefer it to a Hallmark card to show you care. Besides, it matches the rather large one I branded _you_ with," pointing a skeletal finger at the side of her neck.

"We're little more than animals," she replied happily, growling at him. "My very own Mr. Rhythm."

"Was it worth giving up the Furniture Barn, Christine?"

She scooted down in the bed and rolled over on top of him, pinning him to the mattress just as he had done to her only minutes ago. "Would I rather spend time in bed with you instead of picking out a new couch?" Her hand slid through his tousled hair, winding an inky length of it around one finger, before looking into deep-set eyes which held just a hint of vulnerability. She kissed the fake nose of his mask. "If I say yes, will you buy me a new chair to go with the couch?"

"Quoting your remarkably concise daughter...uh uh."

"No, says the man," and proceeded to rake her nails down his prominent ribs, producing a hastily smothered laugh from him. "It's _yes_ , Erik, or I won't tell you what a stud you are between the sheets, _and_ how much I adore your hands," she dug her fingers into his side, making him squirm, "your mouth," now both hands torturing him, "or how much I love my girly bits gettin' together with your boy toys."

"Ah. And there be your answer," he murmured, kissing her.

"You bet," she whispered, fingering the uneven lengths of his hair. "Let me trim it next time, 'kay?"

"You don't think I do a very good job, do you?"

"Nope. Besides, I like playing with your hair," and giggled when he thrust his head under her hand.

"Is that all you like to play with?"

"Uh uh," parroting him, and pushed his hair behind one ear, playfully running a finger around the shell of it. "This too."

"And?"

She moved to the other ear, and said gently, "Well, would you look at that! They match."

"That's _all_ you are interested in?" his fingers skating across the tender skin of her back. "I could have sworn you found other parts of my anatomy even more compelling."

She gave in with a chuckle, and slipped her hand down between their bodies. "Just because you're hung like a Himalayan mountain goat, doesn't mean I consider that to be your best feature!" she teased.

"Himalayan mountain goat?" Erik snorted a laugh. "At least it wasn't something ridiculous such as the...um... Borneo spider monkey."

"Borneo doesn't have spider monkeys," and sheepishly tapped the side of her head. "See? My head is stuffed with more animal trivia than I need after four years with a zoologist. Do you know, Raoul once lectured me at the breakfast table about flatworms?"

"You must have been truly _flat_ tered," Erik said, amused.

"Oh, my motley fool! You have no idea. Flatworms engage in a little um... penis fencing to get themselves a mate."

"Penis... _what?_ "

"Fencing...um...as in dueling. Duking it out. I know," she said with an ornery grin, "it's weird, isn't it?"

"Very. Aren't they hermaphrodites?"

"I forgot that you're my boy genius, didn't I?" she replied laughing. "Yep, they are. They can be male or female as the need arises," and here she chuckled evilly, "or whoever wins. Having the handiest appendage, determines who is the boy and who is the girl. They both want to win the um...uh... _cock_ fight cause the female role is much more difficult, what with laying all those eggs and raising the kids once they hatch. Which just proves how damned smart worms really are. Everyone knows that males have it made!"

"I won't even go there, Christine," Erik said firmly, "although I will say this...your ex-husband was a hopeless case conversing at the breakfast table. In my favor, if decent conversation stalls, I at least will choose to speak of something more genteel, such as oh, say... a bad bout of stomach flu. With you in mind, I'll leave the flora and fauna alone."

"I love your breakfast conversation," she chuckled, slipping a leg between his, "so much more suitable for eating." She gave a sigh of contentment. "This is _Christine's_ Happy Place now," her hand closing over him, "and I have to admit, it's awfully nice."

He flipped her neatly until he was on top, bracing his arms on either side of her head. "Well, what do you know?" he whispered, peppering her face with kisses. "Here we are again."

"I just might have to start charging you rent," she murmured, "but I guess it means you're not getting bored yet."

"Not for a hundred years at least. For the record though, are you any good at improvisation?"

"Can I bring my whip and chains to the party?"

His eyes gleamed with laughter. "Only if I can bring the chocolate sauce."

"Where do you put that?"

"Anywhere I want," he purred, placing delicate kisses to her face and throat, but when he attempted to go lower, she stopped him.

"It's harder getting out of this bed with you in it," her smile rueful, "but I want to pick Min up earlier than planned. You two can get some quality time in while I make us a meatloaf for dinner. It's her favorite."

"And what does Christine consider to be quality time?" gently nuzzling her ear.

Her eyes slid shut at the feeling of euphoria he always managed to produce in her. "Um...mm... you're a devil...h-how about more ways to cheat at cards?"

"Is this part of your nefarious scheme to woo Araminta over to our side?"

She bucked up her will power, giving him a last kiss before sliding out of bed. "Of course it is! She's not going anywhere, and you're certainly not going anywhere, so the mission _Let's Keep Erik_ is now in full swing. You with me, big guy?"

"I hear and obey, O Luscious One! Why don't I go get her on the bike?" he said, admiring her bare bottom as she bent down for her clothes. "Maybe we'll take the scenic route home."

She spluttered laughter. "Really? There's such a thing as a scenic route around here? Who knew... but yeah, that'd be great. To show my gratitude, I'll allow you first crack at the shower."

"Deal," he said, heading there before she changed her mind.

Christine eyed the pristine white of his back, which had obviously never been marked by the sun, each knob of his backbone clearly delineated, every rib clear-cut and distinct. Her gaze dropped to super slim hips and tight buttocks as he grabbed clothes and scrambled for the bathroom on those impossibly long, too skinny legs.

She had run her hands feverishly all over his body in the midst of their lovemaking, his hands on her skin, ravishing and reverent by turns. What drew her to him and kept her wanting more, she would never know; Erik didn't possess wide shoulders or a brawny chest- no bulging biceps that were the modern standard for masculinity.

And yet.

His was an inner strength, earned by him through too many ugly incidents, most of which she would probably never know about. He had a wiry toughness the same as any seasoned alley cat commanded and used to survive. There was also a hidden well of sweetness and warmth that not many took the time to discover, but she had. To lose him now, would be paramount to losing a part of herself.

"We'll have to work on your trust issues, Girard!" she called after him, looking at the rumpled sheets where they had just lain together, smelling his sweat and cologne on her skin, the musk of sex in the air...

And something definitively Erik.

"Love that man," she whispered fiercely.

* * *

After a late lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, they were playing desultorily in the backyard, throwing a ball back and forth, when Min couldn't stand it anymore. The thought of her beautiful bracelet lying abandoned in the old firehouse was too much to bear, and she told Angie where she believed it to be.

"Well, why didn't you say something sooner? Dustin could've helped us look."

"Why do you think I waited 'til he was gone?"

"Why?"

"Cause he might have found it and kept it, that's why!"

"What would he want with a girl's bracelet?" Angie asked scornfully.

"Well, what did he want with your Poo bear that time he snuck it out of your room?"

The other girl shrugged. "He said it was a kidnappin', but it didn't go missin' for long. He had Poo hanging way up in that tree in the back yard."

"Right. And you had to pay him four Hostess Twinkies to get it back!" Min said, proving her point, "and I don't want my bracelet buried somewhere under that tree. Erik gave it to me."

That was enough for Angie, and she nodded in agreement. If he would have given her the bracelet instead of Min, _she_ would have gone back into that creepy old place all by herself, if need be. She treasured her LipSync tee shirt for the same reason Min did her bracelet- because Erik had given it to her. Even if she couldn't articulate it very well, she could at least acknowledge that Erik was very different from most people. To Angie, he was like something from a storybook. Strange and wonderful. She recalled last year when her mother won tickets to see a theatre staging of Peter Pan. It was only a tiny production, run on a shoe-string, but Angie didn't care about that. The secrecy of what went on backstage, the actors appearing before them in costume, hiding behind their masks of greasepaint and mystery, lifted her into a realm where all things were possible.

Erik made her think things like that.

They trudged back to the firehouse, the bare-bones rattling of tree limbs heralding an end to the milder weather. Min shivered, whether from actual cold or fright, she wasn't certain. The old building loomed closer and closer even as her steps became slower. She briefly glanced at the sky, the cerulean blue rapidly being swallowed by ragged gray clouds. The cheery yellow sun had long ago disappeared.

As if the absence of the sun signaled discord, Angie declared to her friend, "I'm not goin' back in there. It's spooky. I'll stand guard just outside the window, and if anyone comes, I'll let you know. Okay, Min?"

"It'd be better if you came in with me," her tone plaintive.

"I don't wanna," Angie said stubbornly. "Once was enough." She gestured to the flashlight Min held tightly in one hand. "I got that out of the drawer in the kitchen, didn't I? I did my part, I guess, and if my mom finds it missing, I'll be in big trouble."

"Okay," Min replied with a decided lack of enthusiasm. She approached the firehouse cautiously, as if waiting for Freddy Krueger to jump out of the tall weeds surrounding it.

Angie stood near the window, trying to look inconspicuous, while Min dragged the old cracked bucket back to the window. "Hey! Wasn't that below the window when we left?"

"I don't remember," Min replied, but a little niggle of doubt was now set loose. _Was it? And if it was, who moved it?_ Her bravery started to falter, until she thought of her bracelet just on the other side of the window. Well... not _exactly_ on the other side. There would be some walking involved in that huge space where sound created the illusion of someone repeating her words back to her, but she was positive it had fallen off when she bent down for the button.

Min swung a leg over the scabrous white paint of the window sill, and followed with the other one, hanging briefly until her sneakers touched the floor on the other side. She felt her coat catch on something protruding from the window frame and gave it a little tug to get free, hearing it rip.

"Shit," she muttered, before letting go of the sill and straightening up, fingering the small tear in her corduroy coat. She'd be grounded for a year by her mother, and the only thing that would make it worth her while, was if she found the bracelet. She could look at it, and admire the slight jangle of the charms while she stayed locked up in her room, her meals passed through a crack in the door as she listened to the cheery sound of the TV set in the living room. Imagined her computer sitting cold and silent. No more zombie hunting for Min.

"Life sucks," she mumbled, borrowing the phrase heard often from Angie's brother, spoken in all of the childish ignorance of her short tender years on the planet.

"What?!" her friend called.

"Nothin'!" Min yelled back, and slowly turned around.

"Hurry up!" Angie hollered.

"Make some more noise, why don't ya!" Min complained, shouting back. She flicked on the flashlight, stepping away from the window in short baby steps, and left its comforting presence to face the bloated dark.

* * *

He hated winter.

Irving (Gilly, to his friends) Gilbert fed the small fire a few more sticks and sat back on his skinny haunches. He could never get warm, even on these milder days of December, his hands stiff with arthritis and chilblains. He tossed the handful of brussels sprouts that Loot had dived for, into the pan, and put a cracked mug to his chapped lips. He forced himself to sip from it when he preferred to gulp the liquid fire which momentarily warmed his belly and extremities. Booze was hard to come by, and the amount he had managed to find from various dumpsters hadn't added up to much. He glanced warily at the other two inhabitants of the old firehouse and his grip tightened around the mug handle. They were eying him and the mug closely, knowing what it contained.

"A pat of butter would make these sprouts better," he groused to no one in particular, "or a little oil 'n some salt and peppa."

"Well now...why not let Loot here squeeze ya some grease from that oily shit he calls hair?" Oswalt said, not even bothering to look up from the sullen fire. "Might have to pick out a few of them old gray hairs, but what the fuck."

"Fuck you," the man in question returned mildly.

Gilly took another tiny slug from the cup in his hand, licking a precious drop from his bottom lip. A fleeting warmth in the blood. Enough spirits to blunt his circumstances and the company he now kept, even if only for a little while. Once the days shortened and the air turned colder, nothing would warm him up until the sun and the temps rode high in the milder weather of a spring thaw.

"Give me a knock of that gin, Gil, why don't ya?"

Gilly looked over at Marvin (Loot) Moretti and shook his shaggy head. "Go find your own. This is mine. I nabbed it. I drink it."

"Aw right, aw right. Jesus. Who pissed in yer Wheaties?" Loot complained. "I'd be willin' to give ya a piece of hamburger I found for a swig of that gin. How 'bout it?"

"A swig is all I got."

"You two pricks are gettin' on my nerves. How'd it be if I bash both your fuckin' heads in and eat myself some burger and drink that booze?"

Both vagrants turned uneasily to the other man at the sputtering fire which barely warmed chilled fingers let alone frozen feet. They had come back to the derelict firehouse late one afternoon a month ago to find the newcomer squatting over a freshly kindled fire. They had warily circled the ape-like, powerfully built man, cautious around the drifter with the depraved eyes and surly attitude.

Milo Oswalt was not a nice man.

The forty something Oswalt was a degenerate with a yen for flaunting his family jewels, a practice for the most part that the other two men found repulsive. They might be of little account and no more than bums, but exposing themselves to women and small children went beyond the pale. Gilly often wondered what else Oswalt was capable of, for he was sick and twisted, telling the other two men of the times he had stalked kids until the right opportunity presented itself for a little game of Reveal. The rapacious gleam of his eyes as he related these sordid tales, had the other two men treating him like an unexploded bomb. Trying to convince the man to move on, had led them nowhere.

Besides being a perv, he wasn't to be trusted with their things. Leave any small item of food or clothing lying around, and it would be gone for good, no doubt in Milo's pocket. To argue with him for a return of what he stole, was meaningless, for he would only smile that cold humorless smile and dare them to try to take it back. No attempt to deny the theft. Merely a seemingly benign look from watery, red rimmed eyes and a challenge to bring it on. To leave the relative comfort of the firehouse to find some other place to crash, wasn't much of an option.

So they stayed.

The two men had returned at near the same time with whatever they could get that day, to find Milo there before them, building a small fire, and wearing a self-satisfied air. Every so often, he stuck his hand in his pocket and jingled something there. Something that tinkled with a soft cheery sound. They sat around the sputtering fire and dozed, dreaming of better days, barely aware of the approach of Christmas. Everyday was more or less the same for those living on nothing except for what they could scrounge behind restaurants and apartment buildings. Dumpster diving on most days, rarely went by without finding something to eat, for most grocery stores were notorious for throwing out food that was still edible. Likewise anyone cleaning their fridge and pitching out most of its contents, but the trick was to get past all the crap that was inedible or downright nasty. Their rule was to share all the food they found unless it was only a few bites.

Any booze found was considered a personal item and therefore off limits. No sharing required, thank you very much.

Gilly leaned as close as possible to the scant warmth of the fire, and stirred the pan of sprouts, before adding the fairly decent chunk of cabbage he'd managed to find. Sleeping near the fire tonight promised to be more noisome than usual, and he had nearly convinced himself to seek a better locale. Maybe Florida, or even California with its temperate winters. He was tired of aching joints from the snow, and cold winds always carrying the threat of ice with them.

He sank into a fitful doze, dreaming about his daughter when she was just a little gal. Lord, how he could make her laugh and how she enjoyed his company as he pushed her on a swing in the park near their home. It hadn't been a bad life before the booze took hold of him and wouldn't let go. Wonder where Laura and the girl were now? He could still hear Heather giggling as he pushed her higher and higher. He smiled at the sound of children's voices as they loudly called back and forth.

His head whipped up.

He was wide awake and the voices were still there. Gilly looked over at Loot, noting Milo's absence. "Kids in here?" he groggily asked the other man.

Loot nodded at the pan. "You're scorchin' them sprouts."

Gilly yanked them out of the fire, burning his fingers. "I asked ya a question! Are there kids in here?"

"Seems so.

"And Oswalt's all set to entertain 'em."

* * *

"Go on, Min! It's gettin' late."

"I'm going, I'm going," the girl said impatiently, knowing her mother and Erik would be coming to get her soon. Her feet started moving away from the relative safety of the window, even if her heart refused to budge. She cast one last look over her shoulder at the pale face of her friend framed in the light from the window, and audibly gulped. She wished she was at home with her mom and Erik right now, not trudging through this ratty old building like a scared little dork afraid of the dark.

She _was_ a scared little dork afraid of the dark.

If she was sitting at the kitchen table right now, Min could be eating a plateful of mashed potatoes and meatloaf; she wouldn't even mind the peas if that was the veggie of the day. She could be telling her mother all about her ride on the back of Erik's motorcycle, and her charms would be hanging safely from her wrist, not lost in this yucky place. She wanted to be there right now, instead of defying her mother and being mean to Erik, but she kept moving forward, her stubbornness determined to get her precious bracelet back. The thin cone of light stabbed the darkness ahead of her, the view jittering wildly in her shaking hands, emphasizing the abundance of tenebrous color surrounding her. Bright didn't exist in this world, only the dim and obscure. The secretive and hidden. Min took a couple of shaky breaths, forcing herself to calm down, wiping sweaty hands on her jeans.

"I can do this. I _can_ do this." It became her mantra as she put one foot in front of the other, and shuffled forward, reluctantly leaving the office behind.

She smelled wood smoke at the same time that she saw the fitful glow of light up ahead- in the very direction that she was headed. Min came to a halt, undecided if she wanted to continue. The hair on her arms prickled with danger when she heard a noise off to her right. She let out a scream of fright when a hairy face rose up in the yellow beam of her flashlight. To her ever-lasting shame, she felt a dribble of urine escape her.

"Your mama know what your doin', gal?" a gruff voice rasped. "Get outta here now!"

Min froze in terror at that awful face. She could smell it too...rank and unwashed.

"Scat!" the boogeyman hissed, and her joints unlocked, allowing her to take a step backward, then another. She turned to run, her bracelet forgotten as terror at the wraith behind her drove all other thoughts from her head.

"Run!" Gilly implored her, and turned as Oswalt came up behind him and swung something hard and cold at his head. Pain and sparks of light exploded behind his eyes, and he went down to one knee as blood sheeted over his face and consciousness began to leave him. "Run..." he gasped, before slumping boneless to the floor.

Oswalt never even slowed, as he moved quickly to prevent his prey from escaping.

Min pelted for the window, her breath coming hard and fast as she went. "Angie!" she screeched in fear, as her escape route was cut-off by the ragged figure blocking her way. Wild eyed, she stared as the man advanced on her. Shaking badly, she took two steps backward and turned to run...

Anywhere.

The beam of her flashlight shook madly in her fist as Min ran, her feet lent speed by her fright. She spied the doorway where she got her button, but flew past it, knowing to enter was to be trapped. Her toe caught on the uneven concrete, and she went sprawling, pain blooming in her knee, her glasses flying off into the dim interior. She leapt to her feet and stumbled into a run, feeling the wetness from her torn knee trickling down her leg. She ignored it as she found a burst of speed and attempted to outrun her pursuer.

She was terrified.

Milo followed behind at a fast walk, enjoying himself hugely. A hunger was growing in him, gnawing at his gut, and the anticipation of the chase only fed it. He had watched as the girl came through the window, tracking her every movement, until the old bastard had shown up to warn her away. When she fell, Oswalt graciously allowed her to get up, dogging her steps as she sped through the doorway, never once looking back.

There was nowhere for her to go.

Milo smiled.

Min raced down the hallway, tripping on a pile of refuse before righting herself, the stench of dust and mildew in her nostrils as she ran past numerous open doorways showing empty rooms. She entered a large square space, which unknown to her, was once the company's dining hall. She made it through the door at the back, frantically hoping there was a way outside. Her breath was wheezing in and out of a throat threatening to close, the pounding of her heart filling her ears, and Min was absolutely certain he could hear it. Her side had begun to hurt.

She skidded to a halt just through the door, and tried quickly to shut it, but years of unrelenting heat and cold had badly warped it, and it wouldn't close all the way. Forcing herself to think, she looked wildly around for any means of keeping the man out of the room.

It was empty.

She swept the flashlight in an arc, searching for a window or outside door. The room was bare, the walls showing dim outlines where a stove and refrigerator once stood. A heavily stained cast iron sink stood against the far wall, its metal fittings and plumbing long gone. Dirt, cobwebs, and decades of debris littered the dingy floor, which was missing many of its tiles. Her eyes at last fell on the window and a door to the right of her, no doubt leading to the world beyond- and safety. Both were heavily boarded over, but she attacked the door with a vengeance, her small hands scrabbling over the planks. She tugged ineffectually at them, managing only to lodge a splinter in the fleshy heel of her hand.

"Mommy," Min sobbed, her nose running freely, her breath hitching in her throat. "Mama, I'm so s-scared!"

"That there door is all boarded up right and tight now," Milo said apologetically, as he elbowed the hallway door open wider with very little force. "Come on, little doll. You and me are goin' to get acquainted."

Min cried harder, moving away from the man as he shuffled closer, until she was backed up to the boarded over door which led to freedom, a draft of cold air, sifting through the cracks.

Oh, that she were tiny enough to fit through a crack, as her eyes darted everywhere, looking for an opening past the smelly creature scaring her to death.

There was none.

"Easy," Oswalt crooned. "I won't hurt ya," and an awful grin disappeared into the tangled beard. "Not much anyway," he amended. "Come 'ere and see, Uncle Milo."

"Go _away_!" she screamed, her eyes large and frightened, the left one tracking slightly left. Just a little girl who had made a bad decision; one with dirt smeared across her forehead, tears tracing a meandering path down both cheeks. In a last ditch effort, she pulled her arm back and threw the flashlight at him as hard as she could, and watched as it bounced harmlessly off of his chest, falling to the floor with a crack and tinkle of glass.

"Oh, that's gonna cost ya, for certain. I had a use for that," and approached her slowly, holding a blunt fingered hand out in her direction as though attempting to gentle a skittish animal. The long ragged nails were caked with ancient dirt, and Min stared at that filthy hand in horrified disgust. "And to think I was gonna give ya a little present." He slipped his hand into his pocket and brought out her charm bracelet, Min's eyes going round as saucers. "This yours?" and she could only stare dumbly at the reason she was about to die.

"Aww, doan cry! Come on back to the fire with me and get warm. I have a nice pan of hot chocolate." Oswalt held up her charm bracelet, jingling it for good measure. "Whadya say? I could sure use the company and you get this back."

Instead of the girl, a glacial voice limned in frost answered him.

"Her mother has other plans for her. Will I do?"

* * *

 _A few minutes earlier. _

He spied the girl as she stood alone near the abandoned firehouse, and pulled in to the curb, shoving the key in his pocket, and quickly toeing the kickstand down. He was off the bike sprinting to meet her, a feeling of impending disaster settling in his gut. What was Angela doing here of all places, and where was Araminta?

Erik reached the little girl and knelt down, steadying her as Angie careened into him. "Where is she?"

Angie had been crouched down near the window, having heard her friend scream. She had turned at the sound of the motorcycle which had just rumbled to a stop, and seeing Erik, had started to run toward him, her face pinched and frightened.

Angie pointed to the window they had used to enter the building. "I-In there! She went through that window, and s-someone's in there with her! I heard her s-scream," and started to cry.

He placed a gentle hand to the side of her head. "Shh. Go straight home, Angela. Do you hear me? Straight home," and gave the girl a little shove in that direction.

She started to walk away, but turned to watch as Erik raced to the window and grabbed hold of the dilapidated frame, swinging himself easily through the opening and vanishing from sight.

Angie took a sobbing breath, deciding to obey him and started for home. She hadn't gone very far when a patrol car came slowly down the street. Her mother had always told her that the police were there to help. She didn't need the help, but Erik and Min sure did. Angie began waving her arms at the approaching cruiser.

* * *

Min turned at the sound of that beloved voice, and immediately started running toward Erik.

Milo watched as a long slice of shadow peeled away from the gloom of the hallway and took a step into the kitchen. He was looking at a phantom... a creature of the night and its accompanying nightmares, wearing all black just like the Reaper of Souls would. But it was the smoldering eyes that made Milo uneasy, for they promised mayhem.

They promised death.

Seeing where the girl was headed, Milo attempted to snag any part of her that he could, managing to hook his fingers in the tear on Min's coat, and only succeeding in ripping it more.

Erik stepped forward and caught her as she threw herself at him, clutching his jacket in a panicky grip. Here was safety and love. Someone she could always put her faith in.

She knew it now.

Erik pulled the trembling girl close, never taking his eyes from the man in front of him, his senses attuned to any other movements to the sides or behind him. "Are you well, child?"

"I lost my g-glasses an' hurt my knee! I-I fell running away from _him_ ," Min said, her voice coming out in a squeak. She was on the edge of hysteria. "I wanna go _h-home_!"

"And you shall," Erik responded softly.

"Naw. Can't let ya leave here now, can I?" Oswalt said in a low growl. He reached a hand inside his tattered coat pocket, and closed his fingers around the rusted railroad spike he kept for just such emergencies as this one. It made a fairly reliable pig sticker, and the man in front of him would be easy prey, maybe have a few bucks on him or something he could pawn. It would be easier than a fast girl on a hot summer night. Just like ole Gil, who went down slick as butter. He'd done it all before. Those living on the streets had no addresses...no one worrying when they didn't show up. They just vanished. Like the bastard in front of him would. Him and those hellish eyes which were boring a hole right through him.

The little dolly _would_ keep him company tonight.

That's what he thought, right up until the tall scarecrow launched himself at Milo, and the derelict threw his right arm up to block him. The force of Erik plowing into him, took the men over, hitting the floor hard enough to knock the wind out of them both.

Milo coughed, spitting out blood from a tooth knocked loose, and quicker than a snake, fisted a meaty hand and gave Erik a glancing blow high on one sharp cheekbone. Well, whataya know? he jeered. It was human after all.

Erik barely felt it, but it was gasoline on a roaring fire, and managed to send his fury even higher. All that _really_ mattered, was getting his two hands around the pervert's thick neck and feeling the bones give way beneath the press of his fingers.

That's all that mattered.

He longed to feel the frantic beat of the pulse in the man's neck...wanted to choke off the supply of blood to his brain, until he was no longer a threat to Christine's child. Or any child, for that matter.

Erik saw himself as Charon, ferryman of the dead, collecting shiny coins as payment, and sending the newly departed on their way across the River Styx. His fingers caught in the man's shirt, clawing and gouging their way up to Milo's throat, and he sighed in contentment as they latched around the molester's neck. " _I_ require no payment, you see" he hissed, and threw a leg over the man, straddling him. "For you...I'll do it for free."

 _Both_ hands were now grasped tightly around Milo's throat, the man's foul breath washing over Erik's face, and he pressed harder, working to cut it off forever. In a last act of desperation, Milo scratched frenziedly at Erik's eyes, striving to blind him...

... only managing to rip off his face.

Milo's countenance was rapidly turning the color of old blood, his eyes bugging out in a bizarrely comical look of terror. His hand was wrapped unthinkingly around the silicone mask, and he stared at the spectacle of the other man's face in front of his dimming eyesight. His fingers let go of the mask, and scrabbled for the iron spike in his pocket. His panicked fingers latched onto it, and tugged it free, out into the open, his only intention, to drive it into the freak's eye and from there, into his brain.

With his last ounce of strength, he clumsily swung the spike and felt it connecting with flesh, although it wasn't the other man's eye, but a shallow furrow plowed in his scrawny neck. Erik never reacted, but simply removed his murderous grip from the other man's windpipe, instead putting all of his considerable strength into the hold he now had on the man's wrist. He bent it backward, crushing it mercilessly at the same time. The vagrant sucked in a painful, welcome breath of air, and howled in agony as tendons stretched and tore like soggy paper, dropping the rusty spike which had already ended the lives of more than a few homeless.

The rage which had built at the thought of what almost happened to Christine's little girl; the knowledge that creatures such as this man existed to harm the innocent and unwary, took over then, causing his right arm to draw back and fly forward, connecting satisfyingly with the meat and bone of the other man's face. Erik grunted his approval.

And clocked him again.

And again.

When his right fist tired, he switched to his left.

Erik cocked his head at the breathless cries just behind him, ignoring the frantic hands plucking at his jacket.

He barely felt the sting from split knuckles or the slickness of blood; never realized how many times he drew his battered hands back and did it again and again and again, the man's dirty face awash in red, his nose at a crooked angle, his swollen jaw more than likely dislocated or broken. Erik was hoping for broken. Both of Milo's eyes were nearly swelled shut, and his laboring breath whistled in and out of a mouth filled with blood.

For an added filip of pleasure, he slammed the man's head on the concrete a few times, delighting in the dull thud. At last, the agony of his abused knuckles filtered through his rage. "My hands are hurting, you see, so perhaps a choke hold will suffice. Less painful. Not for you though. Oh no, not for you..." and bared his teeth in a snarl, encircling Milo's already ravaged neck with eager hands.

"Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more," Erik intoned, panting as he squeezed harder. "Ever hear that one? Are you familiar with Shakespeare, you worthless piece of dung on the bottom of my boot?" The coldly polite conversation was eerily juxtaposed by murderous hands and lips peeled back from sharp canines.

Min's screams were mere background noise, her small hands desperately tugging on his jacket, ineffectual. He felt the push pull on his clothing, but Erik never stopped.

Min started hitting him.

Blows landed on his back and shoulders. He barely felt them.

The girl was precious to him. But more so, to her mother. A hurt caused to Christine's little girl would have devastated her.

And that would devastate him.

The human abomination must be punished for his transgression.

Erik's demon was loose and capering with glee.

* * *

 _'You are loved._

 _If your heart's in a thousand pieces._

 _If you're lost and you're far from reason,_

 _Just look up and know you are loved._

 _When it feels...when it feels...'_

The loud raps on the front door interrupted her impromptu singing as she moved around the kitchen. She had glanced at the wall clock a few times, wondering what was keeping Erik and Min; even going the long way home wouldn't take that long. Once she got the meat loaf in the oven, she'd give him a call before she started peeling the potatoes. "Coming!"

She didn't expect Erik to knock on his own front door, so that ruled out him and Min. She peered out the peep hole, startled to see a police officer standing beside her grubby daughter. She yanked the door open and Min was in her arms sobbing out a story that Christine could barely understand.

Holding on to the little girl, she invited the cop in and closed the door. She knelt down and studied her daughter's face, which was red, her eyes swollen from crying. "What happened? Are you okay?"

Min knuckled an eye and nodded. "I hurt my knee, but the ambulance guy put a b-band aid on it."

"Your knee? What happened to your knee, and _why_ was an ambulance called?" Christine looked from the cop to her daughter, her eyes widening. "Where's your glasses? And where's Erik?" She looked at the front door as if he would suddenly slink through it.

"Her knee isn't bad, ma'am. The medic treated her and said it's just minor. But he gave her a Tetanus shot just to be safe. May we sit down for a few minutes, Mrs. de Chagny?"

Christine passed a hand across her face. "Uh...sure. I guess. Have a seat." She turned to Min. "Where is Erik?" she asked again, speaking slowly, wanting no one to misunderstand her question.

Min sat on the edge of a chair and looked at her mother with sorrowful eyes. "They t-took him away, Mama! He beat a man up and he...he... they took him a...a... away!" she sobbed.

"Oh, baby!" and gathered the little girl in her arms. Christine looked over her head and stared at the cop, her sense of shit hitting the fan, alive and well. "He's in jail? What happened?" she asked harshly, deeply afraid of the answer.

Between Min and Officer Ramiro, the story came out.

"I-I left Angie's yard, and...and went into the old firehouse down the street," Min said in a halting voice.

"Why, Min?" her mother cried softly. "Why would you disobey me?" The rest of her lecture died on her lips. "Never mind now. You went into the building and...?"

"There were two men in there, and one t-tried to make me leave, but the bad one showed up...and...he...he..." Min burrowed closer to her mother.

Christine's hand stroking her daughter's head abruptly stilled, and she pulled Min around to stare into her eyes. "Did the bad man touch you in any way, honey?"

Min emphatically shook her head. "Erik wouldn't let him. He had a fight with the bad man and h-hit him 'til he was all b-bloody. I grabbed his arm to... I wanted to make him stop hittin'! I yelled at him to stop!" She shuddered and said sorrowfully, "I hit him, Mom! I hit Erik to make him stop!"

"And did he?" she asked her daughter quietly.

"No," and fat tears were now running unchecked down both cheeks. "But he did when I... I h-hugged him. I hugged his neck really h-hard and he stopped." Her nose was running, and she looked with accusing eyes at the cop, sitting at their table with his pencil and notepad. "They stabbed him," she cried, accepting a tissue from her mother, and balling it up in one small fist. "They stabbed him an' he fell down."

"He was tased, Mrs. de Chagny," Ramiro calmly informed her. "There were two injured men lying in that building, and Mr. Girard was standing over one of them with bloody hands. The man was badly beaten." The cop shook his head. "I never saw such a face-" he chanced a quick look at the girl. "He was quite a sight, ma'am, and when we approached your daughter, he attacked my partner. We felt it was the only way we could contain him with minimal damage to anyone else."

When Christine heard the treatment Erik had received, she saw red. "Wait just a damned minute! He stopped a man from molesting my daughter, and you beat _him_ up?"

"We didn't beat him up," Ramiro protested, "but he sure made a mess of the other man's face. He tried to do the same to Hicks... that's my partner. He didn't want us anywhere near your daughter. That's why we had to tase him. We assumed he was out of control."

"B-But don't you see? He only lashes out when someone he cares for is...is hurt or...or threatened! He's not crazy. He's a caring man, that's all," she said forcefully, looking up at him with hard accusing eyes. "He's a caring man, and you punished him for it!"

"Mr. Girard nearly killed that vagrant. Even if he is a suspected child molester, it's against the law for your... for your friend to take matters into his own hands. When we came on the scene, he had already tried to do a very good job of it, and we weren't sure if he'd listen to reason. The man's injuries are extensive enough that he's been admitted to the hospital in serious condition."

"What more do you need from us?"

"We're done here. We've questioned your daughter and her friend, so that's all for now. Once Mr. Girard makes bail, you'll have him back soon enough."

"But why are you holding him?"

"That's the way the law works, ma'am. He's been charged with assault using a deadly weapon."

"What weapon?"

"His hands."

"Is he hurt?" Christine asked softly.

"Nothing life threatening. He's got a nasty looking scrape on his neck and a bad bruise on one... on his cheek. His hands are pretty beat up, his right one especially, and he's probably still feeling the affects of the taser, but other than that, he's not hurt bad." Ramiro tucked the notepad away, hesitating a moment. "He clammed up on us...didn't want to say much after we removed your daughter from his presence. He was very upset by that."

"I told you. He's a good man and you treat him like _he's_ the criminal!" she said bitterly.

A grim faced Christine saw him to the door and he took the opportunity to say in a low voice, "The medic checked her over and talked to your daughter about what happened. Aside from her knee, she's physically unharmed, but you might want to take her to your doctor."

When she returned to her daughter, she looked her over carefully. "Are you sure you're all right, Minnie?"

The little girl nodded, refusing to look at her mother. "I wish I never left Angie's yard. It's m-my fault they hurt Erik and put him in jail." She wiped at her nose.

"Are you mad at me?" Min added in a small voice.

''Only as far as putting yourself in danger," Christine replied. _And Erik._ Feeling a sense of urgency, she wasted no more time, and reached for her phone, calling the one man she trusted to handle this. She eyed her daughter as she spoke quickly to Phil and explained the situation to him. Feeling slightly better, she knelt in front of the little girl.

"Are you hungry?" she asked Min, lightly brushing hair out of the girl's eye.

She finally looked at her mother and said fiercely, "I want him to come home, Mom. More than anything."

"So do I," Christine answered, also feeling the need to cry, "so do I. Uncle Phil is on his way over with Aunt Lou. She's going to stay here with you while we bring Erik home. It'll be fine. You'll see," striving to believe it herself.

Min threw her arms around her mother's neck. "Am I grounded forever?" she mumbled against Christine's shoulder.

"Not forever, no. Maybe, _oh_...ten or twelve years. That oughta do it," and Min gave her a fierce hug.

Christine sat back on her heels and studied her daughter's exhausted face. "Tell me about it." She poured a glass of orange juice for Min and sat down across from her.

While they waited for Phil and Louise, she haltingly told her mother about her decision to leave Angie's yard and go exploring with the other two kids. Her voice became lower as she stumbled over words, trying to explain her feeling of Erik's eventual abandonment of them.

"I was so scared he was gonna leave us, that I...um...I tried to push him away, so...so when he did," Min fought not to cry again, "so when he d-did...it wouldn't hurt so bad."

Christine listened to her halting explanation with a healthy dose of self-disgust. It was obvious that Min had learned some negativity from her mother- starting with a lack of trust for the men in their lives. "I kind of had the same problem trusting a good thing, and I can insist to you until I'm blue in the face that Erik loves me... loves _us_ , and isn't leaving, but I think only time will show you that." She looked at her daughter with equal amounts of love and exasperation. "If it hasn't already. Baby, he was there when you needed him."

"I was never so glad to see anyone in my whole life!" Min cried softly.

"All right. Tell me what happened after you went in the firehouse. And I mean everything."

Min relayed her terror at the realization that she wasn't alone in the old building. The cat and mouse game the man played, chasing her leisurely through the firehouse, and at last her relief at Erik showing up and stopping the man from grabbing her arm and dragging her away. It was evident to Christine that Min's hero worship for Erik had only grown larger.

As had hers.

Christine felt a powerful wave of love and gratitude for him.

When Min had finished, Christine pulled the girl into her lap and held her tightly. "I love you so much! What if something had happened to you? And what about Erik? He loves you too."

"I know," she whispered. "I k-know now." She clutched at her mother. "H-His face didn't scare me. Not much anyway. It was kinda dark in there."

She rested her chin on top of her daughter's head. "That's right. It's still Erik, isn't it?"

"Uh huh." She snuggled closer to her mother. "I'm so sorry!" she cried in a tiny voice.

"When Erik gets home...you tell him that. He deserves to hear it from you."

Christine kissed her cheek and stood up. "I'm going to run you a bath. Dinner's not ready yet, but how about a Strawberry Newton?"

Min hesitated before whispering in her mother's ear, her small face red with embarrassment.

She ruffled her daughter's hair, and cupped the girl's small face, giving her a peck on the forehead. "It's all right, Minnie. It happens to all of us at one time or another. Welcome to the sisterhood."

Min gave her a relieved nod, and Christine ran a bubble bath, sitting on the edge of the tub while the girl bathed. She left her to get dressed, and wandered aimlessly into the living room, sinking down on the couch, and stared unseeing at their happy little Christmas tree through a veil of tears. Her daughter had nearly been... She held a shaking hand up to her mouth, "Oh, God," her voice sounding teary and faint to her ears. "Oh, God, oh God." The truth of what had almost happened to her little girl, caused a sickening wave of nausea to envelop her. And now Erik was in a bad place.

To add insult to injury, the tree heaved a tiny groan and tilted sideways, leaning drunkenly against the wall, a few tinkles and soft pops signifying the end of some of her glass ornaments.

"Merry Christmas," she muttered drearily.

Christine leaned forward, elbows on knees, and plunged both hands in her hair. Now that she had found that one person who loved her unconditionally, that one man that she loved unconditionally back, life had decided to screw it up once more.

Where was the justice?

She had her daughter back, alive and well, but at a high cost. Erik was no doubt suffering for Min's foolhardy behavior, and the knowledge bit deep. Christine wouldn't be at peace until he was home again.

She felt the heavy weight of his absence in the pit of her stomach, the silence of the empty apartment waiting...pregnant with the desperate hope that all of the joy and happiness wouldn't be sucked from it, leaving the space dry and lifeless as old bone. Her own hunger had fled, her heart and mind now with the man she loved, worried about his state of mind. What she had told the cop was only the truth. It wasn't hard to figure out why Erik was driven to let his anger out. When his loved ones were in harm's way, he acted, and she saw nothing crazy about that.

Not at all.

Now, they just had to try and convince the authorities.

* * *

 **Next chapter- History repeats. Be it ever so humble. Christmas.**


	24. In My Heart of Hearts

**Gingersnaps44-** **Hope you _like_ rollercoasters, lol. As far as fleshing out the characters of the vagrants, I was attempting to show that even the homeless have a history, whether good or bad. I think details add color to a story...in some cases, maybe too much ;) My chapters tend to grow larger as the story goes on, but this one should satisfy your interest to see what their Christmas is like. Thank you for all of your comments!**

* * *

 **Well this is the next to last chapter, folks. Epilogue will be posted in a few days, give or take. Can I just say...it's been fun? Thanks to everyone who took the time to review, fav, or follow!**

 **I need to give special thanks to a few people. No, this isn't the Academy Awards, so don't panic ;)**

 **Gaby \- for sticking around after Motley yanked you out of FF semi-retirement, and being there without fail every week, even when sick. You've been a great cheering section. As always :)**

 **Soignante \- for likewise being there every week, even persevering when laid low by the nasty flu bug. (I owe you some reviews, and I intend to rectify that as soon as Motley is wrapped up) If anyone out there isn't familiar with Soignante's work...do check it out.**

 **cyndaneofc-** **It's been great chatting with you, and I hope you enjoy Motley right up to the end, in all of its windy wordiness ;)**

 **squishmich, peanutpup, Swishy-Capes- Thanks for sticking with the story and sharing your thoughts!**

* * *

 **This chapter is long enough for not only snacks, but a hearty meal. It has everything, _including_ the kitchen sink and its very own zip code.**

* * *

He sat on a hard bench against the wall of the holding cell, cradling his head against the glaring light. His side hurt from the prongs of the taser, and his stomach still roiled from its agonizing affect on his nervous system. He wasn't as young as he had been the first time he was introduced to it, and his entire body was now in protest, his muscles stiff and sore. His cut and bruised hands and the painful scrapes he had amassed in the fight, were treated at the hospital before arriving at the jail. The attending physician had temporarily removed the mask as Erik had known he would, the accompanying shame of baring his affliction in front of strangers, causing him to retreat even further into himself. The harried doctor had simply examined him with weary interest, studying the ruined visage before him, topped by those deadened eyes, and judged Erik's intellect to be as damaged as his face.

More police had swarmed the old firehouse, one pulling a sobbing Araminta away as she tried clinging to a downed Erik, her cries just enough to have him struggling to gain his feet, and had inadvertently knocked one of the policemen to the floor. Two other cops had roughly yanked his arms behind his back and handcuffed him. They had patted him down looking for weapons other than his fists, while the boards nailed across the wide doors in front of the building were removed, and the two vagrants were taken out of it on stretchers. Another homeless man was found hiding nearby, and was removed for questioning.

A small crowd had collected in front of the fire station, and reporters from the newspaper and one of the local television stations waited nearby for an interesting story.

Erik Mercer was an interesting story.

Again.

The police threatened to drug him insensible if he didn't cooperate and come quietly.

No one had read him his rights.

No one had offered him his one phone call.

He was alone.

At the precinct, he was fingerprinted and had his picture taken, standing him against the wall where a height chart was stenciled. He was taken to another room where he was asked a number of questions before being placed in a holding cell. A lawyer would be appointed to him, but this close to Christmas, the wheels of government turned even slower than usual, and the cells were full to bursting, even doubling up in some cases. Erik was just one more piece of meat at the busiest time of the year for crimes of all types, and he could possibly be spending anywhere from a few days to a few weeks, waiting for the process to kick into gear. This had occurred to him as a bored cop recited questions in a droning monotone, and he had refused to answer them, instead, repeatedly giving only his name. His prior history was well known to them by then, but he refused to make his circumstances even worse by running off his mouth when asked pertinent questions by hard-eyed men who for the most part, already knew the answers.

 _Had he ever been incarcerated before?_

 _Did he know the vagrant he had beaten so badly?_

 _What was the little girl to him?_

 _Did they argue about anything prior to the beating?_

 _Was he a frequent dr_ _ug_ _user?_

 _How often did he lose his temper?_

For a fleeting moment, he had wished for the flash cards he used on curious cabbies.

His absolute favorite question was- _My wife has a ton of your CDs. Don't like them myself...too highbrow, but could you autograph something for her?_

And on and on it went. Once again, jagged, painful shards of light were cast on his past and present- striving to derail his lovely future.

 _Christine._

A meal was given to him, a grayish chicken patty, a lump of equally gray mashed potatoes, and a spoonful of dried out mixed vegetables, accompanied by a cup of black coffee.

He touched none of it.

Erik winced at the sting of sore cheek bones long denied air, while staring musingly at bruised and cut knuckles- painfully flexed swollen fingers.

"I have done it again," he whispered to his bony knees.

Slipped his tether.

Gone round the bend.

Spazzed out.

He cocked his head to the side in a moment of true enlightenment. There were more slang terms for crazy than any other human condition known to man. Maybe he would write a coffee table book of funny sayings the general public labeled the mentally challenged with.

If he ever got out, that is.

This could be the event that convinced the powers that be, that after two years (and eight months) of freedom, he remained a dangerous man. He glanced around his temporary prison. They didn't trust him to be loose among other prisoners, so all of this posh luxury was Erik's alone.

Fusty smell from numerous unwashed bodies? _Check._

Bench with thin lumpy mattress neatly rolled up at the foot? _Check._

One scratchy wool blanket? _Check._

Rusty toilet? _Check_ _._

Even rustier sink? _Check._

Handcuffs?

 _Now where did I misplace those darned b_ _angles_ _?_ and glanced around his tiny cell. _Oh my God, officer._ _I need to report a robbery. My beautiful silver bracelets were stolen, and I do believe it was one of your brothers in blue who took them._ He laughed harshly at his droll wit, and to his consternation, a dry sob slipped out with it.

"Here now! None of that," he muttered sternly.

This was an excellent example of karma. _Wouldn't Giudicelli be amused._ He couldn't help snickering at that. _Question is, my good man...if given the chance, would you do the same again?_

Inner Erik remained quiet.

"Afraid of your answer?" he chastised himself, his hands curling into fists so tightly, he watched as a cut on his knuckle reopened and a thin line of blood meandered down a spindly wrist.

Well, would he?

"Yes," he hissed. "Satisfied?" and leaned his head back against the hard wall, closing his eyes.

One look at Araminta's terrified face had managed to make him forget his vow to control his anger, no matter what. Made him forget to seek his Happy Place filled with lovely, soaring music.

What he _had_ felt, was a murderous rage that had crowded out all else. Christine was his, therefore her daughter was his as well. Besides- he loved the little girl for her own sake, and would not entertain any assault on her person.

Now that he had ascertained that Christine's and Araminta's needs would always be placed before his own, he could allow himself to feel another emotion.

Fear.

Erik's eyes darted around the dreary cell, before wrapping his arms around his head and rocking back and forth, attempting to build safe walls in his mind. He failed miserably, knowing very well he may have consigned himself to another stay in a mental institution.

 _Alone_ , that silky inner voice whispered into his very susceptible ear. He would be alone again just like before. Once he no longer served a purpose, he would become a liability and would be forgotten. Abandoned.

He rather thought he already had.

After all, _she_ was young and beautiful, and would have no trouble finding someone new. Someone less volatile and violent. Someone handsome. Personable.

She had before and would again.

 _History repeats itself._

"Christine," he whispered to the silent air, willing an image of her in his mind- one of his favorites as she lay naked beneath him, her hair spread out on the pillow. He loved to watch her face as they brought pleasure to each other, adored the knowledge of their bodies being connected as they moved together in the sweet rhythm of life.

It was over.

There were no tears in him at this devastating fact- his eyes were perfectly dry, yet he couldn't stop his pitiful descent into despair. He perceived a hollowness in the location of his heart- it felt empty and scooped out. Washed clean of happiness- stripped bare of hope. The pain _would_ come eventually. And it would be intense.

The arms around his head tightened and began to tremble. Emotionally exhausted, he left the cell far behind, filling the darkness and void with thoughts of Christine, dozing fitfully until a sound at his door woke him.

"Awright, Girard. On your feet, and place your hands through the opening in the door just like you did when you entered it. Only this time we're puttin' them back on."

He wearily looked up at the burly cop standing just outside his cell. "Where are you taking me?" he asked, struggling to get to his feet. He then approached the cell door in which there was a tray slot used to remove or cuff a suspect's hands, as well as slide meals through, therefore having minimum contact with a prisoner until absolutely necessary.

"Interview room."

The officer cuffed his extended wrists, and Erik snorted a dreary chuckle. Handcuffs? _check._

The cop then had him stand back from the door while he entered the cell and gingerly took Erik's elbow, propelling him toward the door. "Remember to duck this time," he said gruffly.

He was taken down a nondescript hallway of flat cheerless paint and somber gray tiles to another room, this one with a long metal table and folding gray metal chairs arranged around it. He stared numbly at the characterless room. _Gray seemed to be synonymous with incarceration. Much like a mental institution. Both were places where one lost their freedom and dignity._ There was the standard glaringly bright light centered over the table, fortunately at the moment, turned off. The room was empty of people.

The cop pushed him down in a chair. "Sit there and behave yourself."

"What happens now?" Erik asked him in a voice devoid of emotion, his mind racing ahead to the possibility of another inquisition.

"You'll see," was all the other man said, before moving off and standing in a corner of the room.

Erik waited.

* * *

Christine waited anxiously while Phil showed his credentials to the precinct's front desk, plus the paperwork stipulating that the court was releasing Erik from police custody until he went before the magistrate.

Phil watched as she nervously shifted from foot to foot. "Calm down, Chris, will you? We'll have him out of here in just a little while."

"This is the last place he ever wanted to be! He's done this before, and you don't realize how hard he's worked at not ending up here again!" She ran a nervous hand through her hair. "He's in this predicament through no fault of his own, Phil. He's here because of Min."

"I realize that," he said, striving for patience. "That's one of the reasons _I'm_ here now. But you need to relax. Everything from here on out is mostly cut and dried. It was defense, pure and simple, and I'll prove it."

He had explained to her what he found out on the drive to the police station. "I got a status report from the hospital about the man Girard was... _subduing._ "

"And?"

"He'll live, but he's going to have one hell of a headache indefinitely; he has a brand new nose, courtesy of Erik, a dislocated hyoid bone in his throat, plus a wired jaw. He's a right mess, but his living state is fortunate for Girard, if not for the public at large, but once he recovers, the cops have a few hundred questions for him. I don't think he's going to be bothering little girls anytime soon. They got a statement from the one vagrant that Oswalt was stalking the kids, and if the other injured man ever regains consciousness, he'll corroborate Min's story."

"That bastard! I only hope if there's a next time he won't be so lucky," Christine said heatedly. "If Min hadn't stopped Erik, that low-life would be one less pedophile to deal with."

He gave her a faint smile. "Girard's really not such a pain in the ass after all, is he?"

"How many times have I tried to convince you of that?" Christine said impatiently.

The desk sergeant had a policewoman take them through a door in the back of the room that remained locked at all times. She led them through it and into a long drab hallway, where they walked to the very end, and to another door which was labeled _Interview Room 3_ below a square glass window imbedded with metal grids.

"He's in here," the policewoman informed them and opened the door, ushering them inside the room.

She saw him sitting on a chair at a long table, his hands folded neatly in front of him. He was cuffed, and a tiny moan escaped her mouth to see him looking so defeated, his once proud bearing absent as he sat hunched in on himself.

"Why is he wearing those?" Christine blurted, her voice climbing as she indicated the restraints on her lover's hands. "He's not a dangerous criminal!" and she turned to Phil. "Make him take them off."

"Hush, Christine. That's what we're here for," he replied sharply.

Erik's head had snapped up at the sound of her voice, and for a moment, stared dully at the mirage which had just walked through the door. "She's not real, you idiot," he whispered. "Not real, not real..."

Christine, seeing that deadened look in his eyes, felt her stomach tying itself into knots. "We got here as soon as we could! Oh, Erik! You don't know how...how w-worried I've been."

The words out of the mirage's mouth ceased to matter; what did, was that note of tender concern which nearly unmanned him. Against his better judgment, he decided that she was indeed real. He was on his feet instantly, his muscles protesting the sudden movement, when it occurred to him that he was handcuffed. Mortified, he simply stood there, drinking in her troubled face and anxious eyes, uncertain of how to proceed. He wanted to hold her, and that seemed very unlikely with his hands caged.

The cop had tensed when Erik stood up, and rested his hand lightly on the butt of his service pistol. "Sit down, Girard," he said firmly, looking passively at Christine.

"The cuffs are standard procedure when a cop has been attacked, ma'am. If he behaves himself, in due time, they'll be removed." He gestured to the chair Erik had just vacated. "I told you to sit down," for Erik hadn't moved, frozen in place as he lovingly regarded his miracle.

"That won't be necessary, officer," Phil replied, stepping forward with bail papers in hand. "Mr. Girard is leaving today."

Glancing into his eyes, Christine suddenly realized that Erik had expected to be abandoned to his fate, just as he had five years before. The look he gave her was one of incomprehension, shading to shame, and morphing into disbelief.

And at last, a weary joy.

Her eyes filled with tears to see his cut and swollen hands, the knuckles a livid purple, still weeping blood. When he had first raised his head, she nearly cried out at the bruise on his forehead just above the mask. She spied the angry looking scrape down the left side of his neck, and momentarily forgot what the cop told her when he brought Min home. She felt a fury rising in her that needed an outlet, or she was headed for a melt-down.

Christine dragged her eyes away from Erik, and stared hard at the cop through narrowed eyes. "Which one of you brave men beat him up?"

"Christine-" Phil began, only to be ignored by her.

"He saved my daughter's life from that piece of scum, and you people treat him as if _he's_ the criminal!" her stance, one of vibrating rage, ready to launch herself at any convenient target.

"Don't make this worse than it is, Christine," Phil warned.

"Was he beaten?" she insisted.

The veteran officer met her eyes patiently, inured to the volatile emotions of family members. As long as she didn't become physical, he simply bided his time until his shift was over. His eyes flicked over to the man in the false face. The mask didn't surprise him as much as the woman did. Obviously, she had a serious problem with her eyesight. He decided to humor her, and answered. "He didn't get any of those from us, lady."

Christine's eyes sought her lover's. "Is that true, babe?"

She was here now. That was all that mattered to him. The terror he had lived with since being jailed, began to release its smothering hold.

"Yes," he whispered, his eyes intensely focused on her.

Christine's anger collapsed like a house of cards, and she murmured an apology to the cop, while offering Erik a teary smile. She began moving toward him.

"Remove the cuffs, officer. Mr. Girard is free to go," Phil grabbed Christine's arm halting her forward momentum, and handed the bail papers to the cop.

Erik, still with a sense of disbelief at this turn of events, remained still, his knees wobbly from the taser and threatening to dump him on the floor.

Phil, noting Christine's further attempts to get to Girard, tightened his grip on her arm. "Let the man get his hands free, _then_ you can jump all over him," he said in a low, amused voice.

Erik fought against the need to hold her, his burning eyes never leaving Christine's while the handcuffs were removed. To be looked at like that, was more than he had ever thought possible, and his throat of a sudden was constricted, his chest tight. He was loved, and Erik wanted nothing more than to be in her arms.

She had come for him.

The cop went to the door and opened it. "See the officer just outside and sign for whatever valuables you came in with, then you're free to go," he said to Erik, and left them there.

Christine walked inexorably toward him, wanting so badly to fling herself into his arms, but hesitated...he appeared to be unsteady on his feet, almost frail.

He had also begun to move, drawn to her like metal filings to a magnet, and never registered the bone deep sigh of contentment he uttered when she slipped her arms around his narrow waist, and rested her head lightly on his chest. He clung to her, burrowing his face into the fragrant cloud of her hair, as an overwhelming mixture of love and relief left his extremities even weaker. They said nothing for the moment, just held each other close, content to be together.

Christine whispered tremulously in his ear, "Thank you for my daughter."

His arms merely tightened around her, his lips perilously close to hers. A little more to the right and...

She raised one of his slender hands to her mouth and tenderly kissed it. "Your poor knuckles," she said softly.

"They'll heal," he murmured.

"Your bike is safe and sound, Girard. I took the liberty of bringing it back to your place. It's in the shed."

Erik, his head swimming with the heady scent of the woman now clinging to him, reluctantly raised his head. "Know your way around hot wires, do you, de Chagny?" and regarded him with new respect.

"I've been known to show my wild side a time or two," and when it looked like his unenviable position of voyeur was to continue, Phil added, "Not that I mind this happy reunion, you understand, but wouldn't you like to continue this in a better place?"

"Yes," she answered, and pulled away from Erik, who seemed content to keep her right where she was. She lifted a hand to the painful looking goose egg on his forehead. "You sure they didn't get rough with you?" her fingers gentle as they pushed his lank hair away from the bruise.

"Yes, did they, Girard? You don't have to keep quiet, you know," a suddenly grim Phil asked. The accused often collected the odd bruise or two while in custody. It wasn't unheard of.

"I bumped it on the door lintel," he admitted sheepishly. "I forgot to duck."

Christine stood on her toes and kissed him. "Hey...let's get you outta here. What do you say?"

Erik could only nod, his throat tight with emotion.

He was going home.

* * *

It was after eleven o'clock when they arrived back at the apartment, and a relieved Sorelli got up from the chair in the living room and walked quickly to Erik, giving him a friendly hug. "Well, I'm sure glad to see _you_! Not that I had any doubts, you understand," smiling up at him.

Erik patted her awkwardly on the shoulder, his tired gaze taking in the welcome sight of warm laminate flooring and buttery yellow walls, his nothing nose picking up the vanilla scent of the candles Christine lit nearly every single night, and the clean smell of pine from their Christmas tree. He regarded the live evergreen garlands draped over the old-fashioned crown molding of the doorways throughout the apartment, observed with a warm glance the electric candles in the windows of the living room.

"I am home with my loved ones," his voice soft and full of disbelief. He had pictured today ending much differently. Erik abruptly turned to Phil extending his hand. "I don't believe I thanked you for getting me out as quickly as you did, de Chagny."

Phil took the proffered hand. "She's my niece," he said simply, "and you stopped a fiend from hurting her, so you see...I'm in _your_ debt."

"What happens now?"

"Nothing until next year. And then we push for the assault charges to be dropped. In both cases. You didn't injure the cop." He shrugged. "You managed to knock him on his ass, so it was only his dignity you harmed. You were concerned for Min and defending yourself against a dangerous adversary, so assault on the deviant doesn't apply here either. He came at you with a rusty railroad spike, and even though you were a tad over-zealous in your defense of Min," Phil's lips quirked in a faint smile, "it remains defense."

Erik allowed the tightly wound coil of tension in the pit of his stomach to unwind a little more, realizing belatedly, that de Chagny wasn't such a pain in the ass after all.

"How's Min?" Christine asked Sorelli.

"We watched some television and I made her hot chocolate. _With_ marshmallows. She insisted on those. Min told me all about her little adventure to get her bracelet back, then she fell asleep on the couch. I woke her up and sent her to bed a little while ago. That's one tough little cookie you got there, Chris."

Christine grunted. "All of us de Chagny women are. How long has she been asleep?" but before Louise could answer, Min trailed into the kitchen with her red throw and rainbow pony.

"I just woke up... couldn't keep my eyes open anymore," her daughter confessed. She was wearing her Teen Titans pajamas, her baby fine hair, rumpled, and eyes puffy with sleep. Her gaze never wavered from Erik, as her hesitant steps took her closer and closer to him.

He watched her approach, not certain what her mood was. Frightened of him? After all, the girl had watched helplessly while he beat a man to a bloody pulp. Unmasked.

He should not have worried, as her face crumpled, and dumping her stuff on the floor, threw herself at him, doing her best imitation of a cocklebur, wrapping arms and legs around him. Despite the aches and muscle tremors which still plagued him, he gratefully held her close while her small arms looped around his neck.

"I'm sorry! I hit you and I...I'm so s-sorry!" she cried, burrowing into his neck.

Erik stroked her back in slow circles. "You were right, though, dear," his voice low and soothing.

Min nodded tiredly, cupping a hand around his ear and whispering shyly into it.

"I love you too," he returned solemnly, wondering if his throat would always ache so.

"You won't leave us. I know you won't," her voice soft, yet firm in all of its youthful certainty.

"That's right," he whispered back. "I'm not budging from this apartment. You need me to help keep your mother in line." He was foolishly pleased when Min gave a watery chuckle.

Christine watched the two people she loved best in the world, and gave a silent thanks that they were all together, safe and relatively unharmed. The path to this moment had been anything but smooth, yet it was a beginning for the rest of their lives. She rubbed her hands together. "Who's hungry for a meatloaf sandwich and a tall glass of chocolate milk?"

Her eyes met those of her lover's as he untangled Min's arms from around his neck and stood her on the floor. "Brandy for you," she said with a radiant smile, and turned at the sound of Phil clearing his throat, "and you," she added with a smirk.

"Uh...about your meatloaf, Chris. It didn't...make it. I think you had the temperature set too high," Sorelli stated weakly, "but hey, it died bravely."

"Aunt Lou burned it," Min was happy to inform them. "You should have seen the smoke!"

"Thanks for that, puddin'," Louise answered dryly.

"So my poor meatloaf never stood a chance?" Christine said wearily.

"I never said I could make a meatloaf!" Sorelli protested.

"You didn't! _I_ did. I just said to cook it, not incinerate it!"

Which is how they ended up eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at midnight. Going from the loving eyes of Christine, Erik observed everyone seated round the table, and felt a ribbon of warmth seeping into all of the cold, starved places in his soul.

"Well, Louise," Phil said, rising to his feet, "time to let these people get some sleep."

"Sleep is a long way off for those two," she muttered out the side of her mouth, nudging him to look.

"He had a nasty fight with a dirty old perv, and got tased for his trouble," he muttered back. "The most that will take place tonight is Christine providing him with a hot water bottle and tucking him into bed."

"Christine _is_ the hot water bottle, Phil." Louise explained patiently. "You never watched our boy onstage, did you?" she said, nodding at Erik. "He has enough energy for three men," and Phil had to admit that there was something slightly predatory in those yellow irises which were narrowed and closely observing every move Christine made.

"... and that means you, young lady," his one time sister-in-law was saying to his niece, "so you need to go brush your teeth."

Min, for once, was fairly quick to comply, bestowing hugs on her uncle and Sorelli, before going to Erik and giving him another as well.

Christine arrived in their bedroom to tuck her daughter in, and heard Min calling to her from across the hall. "Min!" she said, brooking no argument. "Shut the computer down now. I thought I-" She halted on the threshold and stared at her daughter snuggled in the enormous bed with My Little Pony.

"What are you doing?"

She crooked her finger to bring her mother closer. "Me and Aunt Lou moved some of my things in here today. We changed the sheets and everything!" she told her with childish pride. "Erik can sleep with you now cause I have Scooby," she said, pointing to the gerbil's cage, where he slept curled up in his little yellow cube.

"Are you sure you don't want me to sleep with you tonight?"

"Uh uh. I think Erik needs you to sleep with _him_ ," her daughter replied in all innocence.

"Well, how about if I stay with you until you fall asleep? Cuddle with your old mom for a while. I need it, Minnie."

"Yeah. That'll be awright, I guess."

Christine climbed onto the bed, and pulled Min into her arms. "You okay, button?"

She snuggled into her mother's comforting hold, feeling safe and loved. "Sure. Why wouldn't I be?"

Her eyes filling with tears, she kissed her daughter's soft cheek. _Oh, because a man masquerading as a human being almost ended your precious life._

"Maybe we'll have us some girl talk tomorrow while we get dinner. What do you say?"

"Erik too?"

"Well, I kind of meant just us-" and Christine, simply glad they were all on the same page, shrugged. "Sure. Erik too."

"Mom?"

"Hmm?"

"Can I give him his present tomorrow night?"

"That's tonight, honey. Tonight is Christmas Eve."

"Oh. Can we? He's gonna be so surprised!"

"You bet," and brushed hair off of Min's forehead, before kissing her ear. "And you're okay with us switching rooms now?"

"Sure, I am! Doesn't he _want_ to be your bunkie buddy anymore?" she asked with a frown marring her small face.

Christine shrugged. "Yeah, he does, but we thought you didn't."

"It was my idea, ya know!" Min said indignantly, forgetting how opposed to it she had been in the first place. "I don't know if Erik will be after tonight, though. You snore, Mom."

"Well, sorry for ruining your sleep, daughter mine, but don't tell _him_ that, understand?"

"I won't," she replied with another yawn. "Wanna pinky swear?"

"No, I trust you."

"Shouldn't," she said with a giggle, and turned over.

"Love you, Minnie."

"Me too," she mumbled, giving herself over to sleep.

Christine was amazed at the resiliency of youth. Stalked by a depraved tramp, watched as her friend beat the crap out of him, observed as said friend was electrocuted and roughed up by the police. She managed a watery grin. All in a day's work for her little girl. Still, she would keep a close eye on her for the next few days. A visit to a child psychologist was probably a good idea. Often, very real horrors were compartmentalized and hidden deep. Better to tackle them head on before they did actual damage.

She held Min until she started buzzing like a little bee, and her body went limp in sleep, before slipping quietly off of the bed.

Christine had another wounded soul to check on.

"Only pleasant dreams allowed," she whispered to her daughter, giving her another kiss, and leaving the bedside lamp on, its warm glow hopefully keeping the shadows away. She wandered out to the kitchen where Erik was stacking dirty dishes in the sink. She walked up behind him and snaked her arms around his waist, laying her cheek on his back.

"Hey, you. Leave those 'til morning."

"I was hoping you would say that," and when he turned to her he was wearing the soft cotton mask he wore only at nighttime. "Is she all right?"

"She will be, thanks to you. I want her to talk about it... anytime she feels like it. I don't want it festering inside of her, and popping out years down the road. If I see any signs that she's having trouble dealing with it, well, I think a psychologist is probably a good thing."

Erik nodded, not at all convinced of that, given his history with the mental health field, but decided to remain quiet. It might actually help the child. He indicated the mask. "I found this in the bathroom along with my hairbrush and cologne. I've been moved," and framed her face with his hands, his thumbs caressing her full lower lip. "Why is that, I wonder?"

She took hold of his thumb between her teeth and gave it a little nibble. "Cause we're bunkies now."

"You don't say?" his hands dropping to her hips and tugging her closer. "Do I have a voice in where I sleep, or am I at the mercy of you ladies?"

"Oh, definitely you're at our mercy, Girard. Or I should say, Min's. It was her idea."

He kissed her once, twice, thrice. "I wouldn't want it any other way," he murmured.

"Glad to hear it. I'm going to run a hot bath for you now. Trust me, it'll help with any lingering pain. And don't deny it. I noticed how stiffly you're moving."

"You don't have to do that," hoping she would.

"I'll wash your back." Christine crooned.

"Seeing as how it is hard for me to reach that particular location at the moment...I accept." his eyes flashing a hope for more than just a clean back.

Christine was as good as her word, running him a bath, and adding a generous dollop of her Romantic Dusk bubble bath, to which Erik looked askance. _Scented b_ _ubbles?_

She stood by as he dutifully stripped out of his clothes, and stepped into the tub, gasping as the welcome heat sank into his bones. He lowered himself cautiously into the steaming tub, wincing and hastily retreating as his sensitive nether regions touched the water.

"Are you trying to emasculate me, woman?" he grunted, as he flirted with the sudsy water, at last settling in with a groan of appreciation.

"You and I know that would never happen," she informed him. "Those ain't snowballs ya got there, fella. Those babies are bonafide cast iron," and Christine bit back a giggle at his obvious reluctance to submerge them. She left him briefly, and returned with a glass of brandy, the ice cubes tinkling musically against the sides of the glass, as she handed it to him. He looked questioningly from the glass in his hand, and back to her tired eyes.

She found his masked face so easy to read anymore.

"What you had earlier was Paul Masson. Not bad, but certainly not all that great, but this is the really good stuff, so Merry Christmas! I thought you could use some Remy Martin right about now. It's one of your Christmas gifts, but I never got around to wrapping it."

He held the glass up. "Cheers, and thank you," taking a healthy swallow.

She grabbed a washcloth and soap, working up a sudsy lather before gently running the cloth over his back. Erik hummed in delight.

"Better?"

"Mm. You have no idea," he sighed as she rinsed him off, his keen eyes unwavering on her.

She could _feel_ his gaze; its touch was almost physical, as though he were trailing calloused fingertips across her naked skin. She shivered in longing, and glanced up to see a shadow of something troubling in those sulfurous eyes. Those amazing eyes.

"What?" she asked him softly. "Tell me."

His fingers closed around her wrist and tugged her toward his mouth. "History nearly repeated itself. I-I don't think it is possible for me to live through that again," and he gave her an infinitely gentle kiss to the corner of her mouth. "I have the strangest feeling that if I close my eyes...you will disappear like...like smoke up a chimney."

"I'm not going anywhere," and threaded her hand through Erik's hair, kneading his scalp, supremely satisfied when he hummed his approval. For a strikingly talented man, his ego often played hide and seek. "For one thing...I don't think I'd fit up a chimney," and she kissed those thin lips which could give her such pleasure in so many different places, "and for another...I think I am now able to know a good thing when it's in the palm of my hand," cupping his chin.

"Besides... what happens when someday the ladies de Chagny end up pushing all your buttons? We'll catch the backside of you and the Phantom roaring out of town!"

"Never," he whispered emphatically. "Against all comers, Erik claims the de Chagny ladies as his wimin folk, and will defend their honor to the death."

"Well, we know that to be as true a statement as there ever was," her eyes on him tender. "We need you. _I_ need you." She studied him somberly, her hair piled messily on top of her head. "Have you ever felt like one of those puzzle pieces that went missing someplace- got swept under a rug, or...or accidentally thrown in the trash? Never fitting in anywhere?"

"We _are_ talking about me. Yes," he admitted, "more times than I can count."

"Well, me too, but you changed all that. Cause you see... I finally feel like I'm all here somehow. I don't know... _whole_."

Feeling slightly breathless from that adoring gaze, he took refuge in Shakespeare. "O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright," he murmured softly, settling against the back of the tub and closing his eyes.

"Does your face hurt any?" she asked him, her fingers stroking his jaw, careful not to touch the scrape on his neck.

He shook his head. "Not now. It helps a lot to have the silicone off." He had a feeling of something missing, and puzzled at it, until it occurred to him what it was.

He didn't hurt anymore.

Well, perhaps that should be qualified some, Erik realized, and lay quietly for a short time, _listening_ to his body. The muscles were somewhat relaxed, but still sore. His hands hurt as well, especially when making a fist. Likewise the sharp blades of his cheekbones, which stung from rubbing against the silicone for too long. One hip checked in with a large painful bruise when he fell from the tasering.

All right...maybe not so much physically. He probed his mind for the residual pain of personal loss. He truly believed that Christine had been lost to him. Pain _was_ there... fear too, that she could easily be taken from him, but he buried those feelings much deeper, shoveling more dirt over them.

"Your skin needs to breathe, you know."

"Please... not again, I _am_ aware of that," he responded wryly, eyes still closed as he soaked up her touch on his skin.

"Why can't you take it off when we're alone like this?"

"We've been down this road before," He opened one eye and squinted at her. "Why?"

"Well... wouldn't you feel better? Please?"

"Yes, dear, I would, and _no_ , dear, I won't," his sarcasm lightly given.

"Don't you trust me?"

"It's not a matter of trust. It is because I wish to keep you with me, and I don't think it is possible if my face is the first thing you see every morning." He drained the contents of his glass and set it beside the tub.

"I've seen it already, babe. Remember?" She hesitated a moment. "So has Min."

He observed her from those deep-set yellow eyes, now both open, and felt himself giving in. Just a little. "You are a very persistent woman, Christine," he sighed heavily, "however, I will consider it."

Christine nodded, knowing the end of a particular line of conversation when she saw it, and planted a kiss on his mouth. She shampooed his hair, gently rubbing his scalp, then sluicing it clean. She soaped up her cloth again, and washed his chest, gently dragging it over his flat nipples, smiling when he sucked in a surprised breath and hissed it out between his teeth.

She leaned down and pressed her lips to his, their open mouthed kisses, tender and affectionate, holding very little heat. Her cloth wrapped hand, slipped lower, dipping beneath the water and began stroking him. Erik clutched at her shoulders, the tips of his fingers digging in, his hips bucking at the exquisite feel of the rough washcloth against his sensitive skin.

"Well, well, well, what do you know? I've found a sizable hunk of wood, and my goodness, is it ever happy to see me!"

Erik observed her through slitted eyes as her hand continued squeezing him intently.

"You are going to kill me," he said, his breath coming a little faster, as she single-handedly pushed the last seven horrendous hours to the back of his mind. His hands pulled her closer until she was nearly in the tub with him. Christine backed away, wordlessly stripping off her clothes in record time.

She slipped into the warm water, and reached for the washcloth, but Erik shook his head slightly, and pulled her in between his legs. "No, ma'am. Allow me," and proceeded to wash her, the cloth moving lightly over her breasts, skimming the pebbled nipples, dipping beneath the surface of the water and lovingly running the cloth over her flat belly and hips, paying loving attention to her mons pubis. "I love you so much," he said hoarsely, putting words together nearly beyond him. Exhaustion, mental and physical, was quickly taking over.

Seeing his weariness, Christine hurriedly finished up her bath, and while he lay quietly dozing, she stood up and got out of the tub.

"Don't go," he mumbled, raising a battered hand to her.

She started to shiver as the cool air hit her wet skin, but regardless, knelt down and took hold of his hand, cradling it to her cheek. "We're going to bed," she whispered.

"Thought you'd never ask." His eyes remained shut, but a smile appeared as she kissed each and every bruised knuckle. "Feels better already," he mumbled.

"I'm going to check on Minnie. You lay there and soak those muscles, and when I come back, I'll help you dry off."

He opened one eye and peered tiredly at her. "Promise?"

"That's a promise."

* * *

She swam up from the depths of sleep, a noise of distress pulling her from the dregs of her own dream. "Min? Whass wrong?"

Christine knuckled wearily at her eyes and turned over, staring blearily at the ghostly face looming up in her vision. "E-Erik?" She sat up in bed, wider awake now, though it was still dark and silent. "Are you okay?" She felt as though her head had only just hit the pillow. After hustling Erik out of the tub and drying him off, she peeked in on her sleeping daughter one last time, before leading him compliantly to their bed. At long last, she crawled in beside him.

He had gone to sleep with Christine in his arms only a few hours before, feeling slightly awkward. He had only done it twice before, when they had slept together that night at his former home, and the evening they had reconnected after her singing debut at LipSync. This however, was different...more permanent. Sharing a bed with another was really a first for him, and as usual, he ran through a possible list of reasons he could be ejected from it.

What was the protocol here? Did they each have their own side once they became drowsy enough to actually sleep? What if he socked her in the head with a bony elbow? It _could_ be considered a lethal weapon. Maybe he would snore and wake her up. And what if he slept as he wanted, spooned around her... would she mind very much if she was poked in the back by his morning wood? He felt an edge of panic creeping in as he tried not to disturb a slumbering Christine. As it turned out, _she_ snored, and he felt a little mollified that she was essentially disturbing him. As he began to drift off to sleep, he pressed a last kiss to her head and closed his eyes, feeling thoroughly safe and loved...

...only to wake up yelling.

Shame had him scrambling to his side of the bed. "Just a dream. I'm sorry I woke you," he muttered, running a hand through his already messy hair.

"No. Shh. It's all right," closing the distance between them and wrapping her arms around him, concerned at the way his chest was heaving, as though he had just run a great distance.

She held him as his breathing began to slow, and he closed his eyes, slumping tiredly against her softness and heat. His own arms folded her close to his body, his troubled mind gradually calming. "A jail cell is not a good place for introspection," he said wryly.

"Want to talk about it?"

"No," he stated unequivocally.

"You went through a lot yesterday," she soothed. "Min wasn't the only one traumatized. Of course you're still upset! It was too close to what happened before."

Erik said nothing for a long beat, that soon turned into a minute. "I thought I had lost you," he said finally, but she heard the tiny tremor in his voice- saw the remaining edge of panic in his eyes from the nightmare.

""I'm stickin' to you like Crazy Glue," she said lightly. "Can you sleep now?" She squinted at the bedside clock. "It's just past five."

"Christine?"

She turned to him, just as his hands reached up, and with slow determination, removed the white cotton mask, his eyes meeting hers with a good deal of anxiety. His confidence was stripped away with the mask. He felt lost for a moment...less of a man as he sat there, naked and exposed, having never permitting anyone to see him as he really was.

She was the first.

The light in the room was a feeble thing, and perhaps he _was_ playing it safe. He trusted her. Of course he did. But the mask had been with him since his first conscious thought: had grown with him, and made up a large part of his identity. It could be said, that after all these years, he was comfortable behind it. That would never change, but he would allow Christine in fully. Someday. It was an unmasking with the bedside lamp off, but it was a start.

She peered at his face in the dimness of the room, the only light, that of the digital clock on her nightstand. She had no trouble making out the odd contours of a face that for whatever reason, never fully developed, leaving a space where a nose should have been. A nose that ought to have resembled his dad's, arrogant and proud.

That absence still remained disturbing to her, yet she dearly loved the man behind it. With time, it would simply be Erik's face.

Hesitantly, she reached out a hand and placed it lightly on one twisted cheekbone. "Thank you for trusting me," she whispered, making up her mind as to what she did next. "Take off your shirt and lie down."

He said nothing as he obeyed her and stretched out on the bed, wondering what Christine was up to. She leaned down and brushed her lips across his, kissing him again and again, one soft hand stroking his bare chest. She felt drunk on love, wanting to taste him on her tongue, map his body with her mouth- her teeth. She slipped her fingers under the waistband of his sleep pants and began tugging them down, directing him to shift around until they were completely off. She smiled to see him already anticipating what was going to happen next, for he was already hard.

She took her time, starting with his thin mouth, kissing him thoroughly, teasing him with her tongue before moving to his chest and kissing Erik's bony sternum, tonguing his flat nipples. They were surprisingly sensitive if his reaction was any indication, as his back arched off of the bed. She moved slowly, torturing him in the most delicious way, his spidery fingers threading helplessly through her hair. He lovingly cradled her skull, his voice a hoarse whisper as he spoke nonsensical words in a litany of love and need. Christine went lower, and lower still, kissing and stroking and taking him into her warm, wet mouth. She paid homage to his body, worshipping her forever love, until at last Erik cried out, his body shuddering in the throes of the powerful climax.

Afterward, she guided him to her, drawing the covers over them both. She draped herself protectively over his spent body, cradling his head on her breast.

And that's where he remained for what little was left of the night.

* * *

"I tell you, Christine, you aren't _completely_ alone over there. You do have the popcorn."

"Yeah, I do," she replied glumly, digging a handful out of the bowl and shoving it in her mouth, crunching loudly.

"Can we have some popcorn, Mom?"

"Sure, why not?" and lobbed a handful at the three sitting so chummily on the couch.

Matching sounds of indignation from all three, left her grinning as Christine got up from her lonely chair and plunked the popcorn bowl in Erik's lap. He winced.

" _Thanks_ ," he responded in a high falsetto.

"You'll survive," she answered smugly, and went to the kitchen to check on the ham now filling the apartment with its mouth-watering aroma.

Christmas Eve found the three of them, plus Angie watching The Wizard of Oz. Before she could take her rightful place beside Erik, she had been outmaneuvered by the girls, who now sat either side of him. He sucked up attention like a damned sponge, actually pretending that Oz was a first for him.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and glanced at her watch. It was nearly seven, and they would soon be having company for their little get together. Besides the ham, they had potato salad and a green bean casserole, along with rolls and assorted cheeses.

"They were very mean to cut you out like that."

Christine turned around to find Erik leaning against the doorjamb, hands in pockets. "I'm surprised they let you leave," she sniffed.

He straightened up and walked over to her, looking down from his great height. "I am here merely to deliver more popcorn to them. Only the delivery boy, Christine. And also-"

Hurry up, Erik! The wicked witch is gonna melt!"

"...their leaning post," he finished. "They have reached their favorite part. The most interesting character in the movie is about to melt into a pile of goo, but as you can see, I am expendable to the process. Do not believe your daughter's eagerness for my return...it is all about the popcorn."

"Errand boy, huh?"

"Yes. Summarily kicked to the curb, so it's you and me, kid," he intoned, sounding eerily like Humphrey Bogart.

"Oh, so now that they don't want you, I'm supposed to take you back, just like that?" snapping her fingers in his face.

"Is this some kind of trick question?"

She snorted. "Of course it is! What other kind is there?"

Erik tilted his head and pretended to consider his answer. He pursed his lips and nodded to himself. "Oh, I see now. I should have saved _Christine_ the best seat."

"Yes. Yes, that's exactly right! Just like Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing where he says-"

"Nobody puts Baby in the corner," he finished, once again nailing the voice. "Jeannette forced me to watch that movie any number of times."

"How the hell do you do that?"

"It's all in the intonation, sweetheart." More Bogart.

Christine fizzed into her coffee cup at such a ridiculous notion, her eyes brimming with laughter. "Oh, Girard! I do love you. No one, and I mean no one, can make me laugh the way that you can!" She set her cup down and held her hands out, palms up, and waggled her fingers. "Come here, my love, and claim your reward!"

"Gladly, my lady. Gladly, say I," and Erik hastened to do her bidding, his hands encircling her waist, cool lips lightly suckling her throat. He was overrun with women, and loved every damned minute of it.

They were all doing a passable job of pretending monsters didn't exist, and bad things only happened to bad people.

Still, he reasoned. Life was indeed, good. They had each other, and that was everything.

She slid her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. "Mm," she murmured against his skin. "You smell better than the ham, and that's sayin' something. Maybe I'll stick _you_ on a bun!"

"I am at your service," his meager eyebrows climbing unseen at all the possibilities.

"Later, dude," she promised, running her hands up the back of his black shirt, and lightly tickling him. "Fess up now. Is it really the first time you've seen the Wizard?"

He shook his head, tensing as her fingers pressed harder. "I was made to view it more than once by the very same sister who made me watch Dirty Dancing."

"Is that where you learned all _your_ moves? You managed to get my knickers wet, you naughty boy," she murmured, "and I'm pretty sure I wasn't alone."

"Did I now?" he purred, his voice shooting straight to her womb. "You may be interested to know that I have some new ones. Perhaps later I can show you," he muttered, claiming her lips again.

"While you're at it sing She's Like the Wind. Please? Just for me?"

He took her literally, his perfect pitch lending itself to anytime, anyplace. His lady wanted a tune, and he would oblige.

Anything. He would grant her anything within his power.

" _She's like the wind through my tree,_

 _She rides the night next to me_

 _She leads me through moonlight_

 _Only to burn me with the sun_

 _She's taken my heart_

 _But she doesn't know what she's done!"_

Christine laid her cheek against Erik's chest listening to the rumbling vibrations as he crooned the words, his mouth close to her ear. She swallowed hard, her hands clutching him tightly. "I just _have_ to kiss you. Now. Right now," as she looped her arms around his neck and tugged him down further, a sigh of pleasure escaping as their lips met.

They were interrupted by giggles, and they sprang apart to find Min and Angie avidly watching them. Min turned to her friend, her small face solemn, "They do this all the time now. Over their toast and coffee, at the stove; even washing the dishes! Everywhere. _All_ the time," and said it with such patient forbearance that Christine let out a gurgle of laughter.

"Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas! We be Santa's elves and bring cookies for the children, and fermented grape juice for the big kids!"

Min ran to the door where her uncle and Louise stood loaded down with presents and cookies. Sorelli plopped her armload of gifts onto the table, and muttered loudly as she waved her left hand in Christine's face, "Now _where_ did I put those darned carats for Santa's reindeer?" she asked innocently. "Oh, look! Here they are! On the ring finger of my left hand of all places!"

Christine grabbed that waving mitt in pure self-defense, giving an excited shriek at the garishly large diamond surrounded by a sizable family of smaller gems. "Finally... I get to throw rice at _your_ head!" and gave her best friend and her best ex-brother-in-law hugs of congratulations, followed by Erik shaking hands with the soon to be groom.

"Any press hanging around, Girard?" Phil asked, wincing at the excited squeals of the women over Louise's engaged state, and the screeches from the girls in the living room as the wicked witch melted.

"A few at the club. Ralph, the resident bouncer sent them on their way. Some tried to get in this building, but Mrs. Turley chased them away with a broom," Erik said with cold amusement.

Phil eyed the other man with sympathy. "Hang in there. This too shall pass."

"Yes. And fortunately for me, sooner rather than later. I've been told by someone in authority that the masses find my music too highbrow," he replied with tongue firmly in cheek.

Christine walked up to Erik and slipped an arm around his waist, leaning into his side. "Then they need hearing aids," she said disdainfully. "I wish we had a bottle of bubbly to toast the happy couple, who _somehow_ managed to put aside their childish natures long enough to get engaged!"

"Thanks, I guess," Sorelli muttered, noting the scorching glances Erik and Christine were sending each other, and looking mighty pleased with themselves. She grinned as she rummaged in the packages on the table and withdrew a bottle of champagne in triumph. "This do?"

The festivities had begun.

* * *

Christine was curled up on the couch, her head in Erik's lap, surrounded by wrapping paper and ribbon of every color. She glanced briefly out the living room window at the dusting of snow on the sill. This Christmas morning was cloudy and cold with flurries, the new day brightened by the cheerful lights of the tree. A fourteen pound turkey was already roasting in the oven, to be consumed that afternoon by the three of them. Min was sprawled near the TV, covered in her cherry red throw, her arm loosely draped over a small blob of black and gray fur topped with a pink nose. Every so often, the tiny nose twitched.

"I don't think I've ever seen her so happy," Christine murmured from where her cheek rested on his thigh. "I was worried about any delayed reactions from yesterday, but Sorelli's right. She's one tough little girl. She's sad about her bracelet, but there may be a lesson in there somewhere if Min's smart enough to see it."

"I'm afraid it is gone for good. At least she has her glasses back. That old building is now boarded up tighter than a snare drum."

Christine suppressing a yawn, nodded. "As it should have been all along. Better yet, it should have been demolished years ago." She gestured to the kitten. "I can't believe Mrs. Turley kept her for you last night."

He shrugged, his arm curling around her hip and stroking lightly. "Mm. I'll probably pay for it in handy work, but even if I do, it was worth it. Ralph gave me the pick of the litter, and Araminta now has her very own Harry Potter... er, I mean _Her_ mione."

When Christine had pronounced the _he_ a _she_ , Erik had scooped up the little kitten and given her a stern look. "Traitor," he informed the wee feline. He then looked at his lover. "Ralph assured me that she had a penis," he said dolefully.

"Just imagine how happy she'll be knowing she doesn't," Christine had giggled. "Serves you right though, listening to that moving mountain. He hit on Sorelli, you know."

"Ralph hits on all the ladies."

"He didn't hit on me," Christine said, not sure if she should be glad or miffed.

"You sound disappointed."

"Not really. It's the principle of the thing."

"Ah. Well, I simply told him you were already spoken for."

"Oh?" her voice sultry.

"Yes. You were _my_ roomie to do with as I saw fit."

"Even then?"

"Even then," he agreed.

"My caveman," she murmured. "Ralph doesn't seem the pussy type though."

"Huh?" Erik exclaimed, sitting up from his comfortable slouch and dislodging a contented Christine.

"Mind outta the gutter, Girard! I meant... he doesn't look like a cat person."

"This kitten's mama was a stray, hanging around in the alley behind the club. Ralph took her home with him and soon discovered that she was gestating," he explained as he played with her fingers.

"You mean she was preggers."

"Isn't that what I just said?"

"Yeah, well, for a right scary dude, he does have a tender side. Who knew?" She affectionately eyed her daughter and the tiny striped kitten. "Face it, babe...you're surrounded by estrogen, and the only help with the testosterone is at this moment in Min's room, running like a maniac on his wheel," she teased. "Sooo...if there's any chest thumping around here, guess it'll have to be me."

"Not on your life!" he assured her, palming a breast in one large hand. "You might harm one of these, and I am rather fond of them the way they are," he murmured, taking a sip of coffee from the bright orange mug that Christine had presented him with. He eyed the word _**Rockstar**_ , superimposed over a large yellow star. He loved it.

"How do you like your tee shirt? Min was so excited when she unwrapped hers." The girl had squealed with delight to find the white shirt nestled in red tissue paper, and had hurriedly tugged it over her head then and there, posing happily for them. The words in garish red appearing to drip blood, read, _**YOU'RE COOL**_ _ **, BUT IF ZOMBIES CHASE US, I'M TRIPPING YOU**_.

Christine had taken one look at the overly large shirt her bloodthirsty little daughter now wore, and remarked to Erik, "Now all I need her to do is wear the pink tutu with it that Sorelli got her." She grunted. "Louise will shit a brick."

"And to think that I once thought you to be a philistine," he responded wryly. "Words from your pretty lips hold so much poignancy. Much better than anything flowery or Shakespearean."

She narrowed her blue eyes at him. "I'm not dumb, Erik. I know you just accused me of being vulgar," and she trailed a hand down his chest. "But I don't care. I love you anyway. The women in this family are tasteless and crass, so you better get used to it!"

"The men in my family are drawn to bossy, overbearing women. Make of that what you will, but if this were poker, you would be folding right about now," he said with a toothy smile.

She let out a rude snort. "Oh really? Well, I'll just see your mother and raise you a Sorelli. Hell... just look at her! And Min's present to you! She should have given you a tie or some rosin for your bow."

"Too boring," he said dismissively, glancing down at his long sleeved gray tee with the words in bold black, _**ROCKER BY DAY, ZOMBIE SLAYER BY NIGHT**_. He gave her his patented snaggle-toothed mega watt smile again. "It is the nicest zombie shirt I have ever owned."

Christine sighed in resignation. "When you found hers, I knew it was a sign. We were meant to be a family," she declared, throwing a pajama clad leg over his lap, straddling him.

Erik took her chin in his fingers and turned her to face him. "Thank you again for the new case," he said quietly. "It is well padded. Better yet... it has a built in hygrometer for measuring relative humidity. I have wanted one of those for years, but never got around to buying it," glancing with proud ownership at the black exterior of the handsome new home for his much loved violin.

"I wanted to get you a new one, really I did, but this year the previously owned ones were all I could afford."

He eyed the case with affection. "It's much better than some of the newer ones, and it certainly looks good."

Christine caught his admiring gaze. "Hey! Why don't you look at me like that?"

"I do look at you like that. All of the time," brushing his lips across hers. "This Christmas has been wonderful," and before he could stop himself... "If I were to ask you one of these days to do it again next year, but with the name of Girard attached to the name Christine, what would you say? Nothing to hold you to, you understand.

"I'll wait until you're ready."

"How long? What if it's years?"

"I will wait."

She watched him a minute more, then put her head back and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. "Christine Girard. Mrs. Christine Girard. Mm... not bad, Mr. Girard. Why don't you try me?"

He cleared his throat, ready to leap into the unknown. "Will you, Christine? That is...will you marry me?"

She studied his earnest eyes, their depths holding a world of love- and a regrettable lack of faith. With her man, actions would always speak loudest. "You're my heart, you know," her eyes soft and tender. "You always will be," and rested her hand beneath his jaw, her thumb stroking his lower lip. "Yes," and kissed his left eye. "Yes," kissing the right. "Yes," over the spot where his pitiful excuse for a nose resided.

And lastly...his mouth. "Mmmm... yes."

He leaned his forehead against Christine's and closed his eyes. "I am happy to give my... _ticker_ to you. The damned thing has needed a home for a very long time, although I can't make it official just yet. I need to find you a ring much larger than Louise's."

"Oh yeah? So they'll put you right back in jail for robbing a bank to get it? No, sir! I want you on the same side of the bars as me, and I refuse to play catch up with Sorelli! Besides...I want something tasteful. That thing Phil gave her could choke a police horse!" She hugged his arm tight to her side. "I have you. I don't need the Hope Diamond. I just need you."

"You are a strange sort of woman, de Chagny," Erik murmured, "but one that shines brightly above all others."

"No stranger than you are to me. Who knew that a man could actually be the sticking kind?

" _Without_ Crazy Glue."

She glanced down at his gift to her, a delicate white gold chain from which a heart dangled. And inside the heart was a musical staff with a tiny treble clef and musical notes, the note heads themselves, holding a single diamond in each. They winked up at her, striking different colors from the reflection of the multi-colored tree lights. It was the nicest gift anyone had ever given her. That it came from Erik, meant the world to her.

Her fingers had buried themselves in his black hair. "I have one more gift to buy before the holiday is over."

"Who did you forget?"

She pulled away from him and sat back on his bony knees. "Nadir. I intend to give him a large fruit basket filled with Florida oranges."

"And here I thought my girl was petty and vindictive."

"Who... _me_? Nah. Just thankful that he was decent enough to leave me in the lurch and send _you_ my way. And he gets a very tasteful condolence card with it. He sure as hell is going to need it with Darla."

"Truer words were never spoken. Erik dodged a fatal bullet there. May he add to the fruit basket and send Khan some lemons?" his smile wicked.

She sighed happily.

"Oh, yes. By all means, do. And how about you and me getting together for something lemony much later?" As his hands cupped her backside, she leaned down toward his lips.

"Now where were we, my motley fool?"

* * *

 **Epilogue to come.**


	25. Forever and a Day

_And...curtain._

* * *

 _Five years later _

He smoothed the wet cement carefully, bringing it to the edges of the wooden forms he had built. He was nearly to the garage now, and the sidewalk would be finished. Erik sat back on his heels and swiped at his forehead, the warm sun on this blue and gold October afternoon, a last taste of Indian summer. He glanced up at the hawks wheeling and dipping overhead in the deep cobalt sky of autumn, and hummed a little Night Hawk from the band Whitesnake.

"No, Jenny! Look what you did, you bad girl!"

A giggle behind him had Erik swinging around just in time to catch his two year old daughter walking barefoot in the cement he had just troweled smooth, her little feet caked with wet concrete.

"Da!" she cried gleefully as he scooped her up, torn between irritation and amusement. The amusement, as usual, won out.

"I instructed you to play quietly with your doll while I put the finishing touches on the walk. "Didn't I, you naughty girl?"

Jeannette nodded eagerly, before shaking her curly head in an emphatic no, and followed it up with another fit of the giggles.

"She was just sitting there, Dad, talking to herself like she always does! I thought I could leave her for one whole minute," Min cried in protest, "but oh, no, the little stinker _waited_ for me to leave!"

"I hardly think your sister is that sneaky," he replied mildly.

"Wanna bet?" Min groused.

Erik carried the little girl over to the spigot on the side of the house and turned it on, sticking her feet under the cold stream of water. Jeannette squealed in surprise and struggled to get down. "Only when you are spotless, child, and not before," he admonished her.

Tiny feet sluiced clean, he searched for a rag to dry them off, and finding none, dried them on his pants. "You may as well add your footprints beside hers, Araminta."

"Why?"

"Then I will have both of my girls' prints in cement for all time."

Min flushed with pleasure and love for this man who had adopted her as his very own. Her biological father hadn't contested Erik's bid to become her legal father. When the adoption surrender papers finally found him, Raoul was on the Indonesian island of Rinca observing the Komodo dragon in its natural habitat.

A six foot lizard which boasted a mouthful of bacteria infested, serrated teeth, hadn't cared for his interest at all, and succeeded in chasing him through a stand of painful thorn bushes and up a banyan tree. The tree was just barely large enough to languish in for a night until a ranger found him the next morning, sweating bullets and thanking the fates that this particular lizard was too lazy to climb up after him. As it was, Raoul barely managed to cling to the limb he was perched on until help arrived. The lizard had finally wandered off just before dawn, searching for a meal he didn't have to expend much energy to catch. Signing papers to give up his only child, was small potatoes compared to that.

Min hurried to comply, toeing off her sandals, her feet sinking into the grainy wet cement. Stepping carefully, she left her footprints beside her sister's, laughing as she went. Done, she stepped out of the concrete and quickly rinsed off her feet.

"How's that?"

"Better than anything at Groman's Chinese." Erik proclaimed, studying Min's neat set of footprints beside the baby's. He kissed the riot of soft black curls on top of Jeannette's head, before putting her down. "Maybe I should hand you two the trowel and I will sit," he muttered, a finger lightly caressing his daughter's ribs beneath the pink tee shirt which proclaimed her to be _Daddy's Princess_. She dodged away from that finger in helpless laughter. Jeannette had inherited his ticklish side.

"Want more cookies?" Min asked her sister, and Jenny clapped her greedy little hands. She gave Erik a knowing smile. "That should keep her quiet for a while."

"She's already had two, and your mother said no more than one."

"You want to finish before dark, don't you?"

Erik could clearly see the logic in this, and took the empty plate, going up to the kitchen door. He stuck his head inside. "Hey, Girard!"

"What now?" Christine demanded as she left the table strewn with pumpkin guts.

He waggled the empty cookie plate and glanced at his youngest ladies, giving them a conspiratorial wink. "We require more sustenance. They're not working for free."

"You're all nothing but a bunch of whacked out cookie monsters!" she complained. Christine picked up a sippy cup of water and approached the door in cut off jeans and flip flops. "This is for Jen. She probably needs it now." She leaned against the door jamb and held her hand out for the plate. "How many did she have?"

"Pssst!" a voice piped up softly to their left. "Tell her just one, Dad."

He cleared his throat and tried for a winning smile. "Uh...one," he said weakly, as his wife drummed her nails against the jamb.

"One, huh? What did she do, Erik?"

Caught and bagged.

"She walked in my finished cement," he confessed. "Right up the middle."

"So now my baby has cement shoes? I knew she was going to get in trouble! She needs to come in and let you finish."

"She's fine, Christine. I'm almost done. Don't you always tell Araminta that sunshine and fresh air is good for growing girls?"

"Those, yeah. Her feet buried in wet cement? Not so much."

"She is clean now and playing quietly with her doll."

"Uh huh." She looked behind her at the kitchen table full of orange pumpkins, lined up and waiting their turn to go under the knife. "Four, Erik? _Really_?"

"Araminta had her choice narrowed down to a few, and you required us to be home in an hour, therefore we took them all. One for each of us," he declared proudly.

"You can not operate that way with kids! They'll eat you alive! You should have told her to just pick _one_. I have things to do yet, and they'll be here in a few hours!"

He slid his arms around her slender waist and nuzzled her ear. "What can I do to make it up to you?"

"Ooh!" she growled. "You're impossible!" She stood on tiptoe and pulled his hair free from the leather tie at the nape of his neck.

"If I promise to be good, will you give Erik another chance?"

"Tell him Christine will _think_ about it," her tone suggestive. "She says it'll probably have something to do with warming oil and a massage."

"You do me and I will do you," he murmured in a voice which never failed to get a reaction from her.

"You have that backward, Girard, but you got yourself a deal," she whispered.

"No, Jen! You little..." Min growled in frustration, and let out a bellow. "Mom!"

"No, Jin," her sister parrotted gleefully. "Mum, mum, mum!"

"Precocious doesn't begin to describe your youngest daughter," as she pulled out of his arms to referee between twelve year old and toddler.

Erik gave her a gentle push. "Go finish your gourds. I have everything under control." This was unfortunately punctuated by Min's scream of outrage, and an answering crow of laughter from Jeannette.

Christine rolled her eyes. "Sounds like you have dissension in the ranks. You're lucky...she's about due for a nap." With a flutter of one hand, she went back to her carving.

Erik beat a hasty retreat outside to restore peace between the sisters.

Min had cornered her younger sibling and was peeling Jeannette's little fingers back one by one from her cell phone, which at the moment was playing an Ellie Goulding tune. "This is mine, Jenny. I don't mess with your stuff."

"Min a _mess_!" the toddler pouted, reaching stubbornly for the phone.

Erik nodded at the object of contention. "She's attracted to the music."

"She's in the right family then," Min said as she rescued her phone, holding it high out of her sister's reach. She glanced up at an empty-handed Erik. "She didn't buy it, did she?"

"No. I am lucky I made it out alive. She attacked me," gesturing to his hair which now hung free down both sides of his face.

"And you enjoyed it," Min replied sagely. "Can I go over to Beth's house? We're going to ride our bikes down to the ferry. I want to stay out of sight for a while."

"Whose? Jeannette's?"

"Nope. Mom's. She wants me to clean my room."

Erik shrugged. "Only because she needed a shovel this morning to find your bed."

Min snorted and tossed her head. She remained a delicate looking child, her arms and coltish legs thin in her tee shirt and shorts; she had outgrown the glasses, but now wore braces on her teeth. Erik often cited his crooked mouthful as an inducement to put up with the braces and trips to the orthodontist, but Min, like her mother, thought him way cool in spite of it.

"I guess you're going to tell me the bike ride's out."

"So wise for your age," he said with amusement. "Clean your room. _And_ that litter box. Even Hermione holds her nose when she uses it. Your bike will be waiting."

She looked pityingly at her sister before going in the house. "Wait 'til you're my age, Jen. They'll put you to work. You'll be nothin' but their slave."

"Slaves? Who has been _slaving_ over your Halloween costumes for Tuesday? Your mother. Who is willing to take you and your sister out to collect candy when you go boo? I am. Perhaps _we_ are the slaves."

"Woo! Woo!" Jeannette yelled, making a scary face at her father, her chubby hands turned into claws.

"That's not how you do it, you little dope! It's boo! Boo! Great ghost you're gonna make."

"Don't call your sister names, Araminta," Erik chided her gently.

"Why does she always have to be different, Dad? No matter what I do, she won't say boo. We're ghosts, not a train!"

"Woo woo!"

"See? I know she can say boo, she just doesn't want to," Min grumbled. "It's probably my last Halloween goin' trick or treating, and I want us to look scary and cool."

"And what is wrong with different?" he asked reasonably. "I have done different myself for years. Successfully, I might add, because I now have you three."

Min shrugged. "But that's diff-" She giggled. "Oh. Put that way, I guess you're right," and she tugged gently on her sister's hair. "Woo woo it is, Jen."

Jeannette whined a protest and he swung his daughter up into his arms, giving her the cup of water. She took a sip, hoping for fruit juice, and at the bland taste, let go of the cup, Erik deftly catching it before it hit the ground. She rubbed tiredly at her eyes as he walked over to the ancient apple tree, its gnarled limbs forming a leafy canopy over the playpen they had set up, and laid her down. Almost immediately she mounted a protest, and he put a slender hand on top of her head. "You have caused enough mayhem, young miss. Sleep for a while and recharge those batteries."

She cried pathetically, reaching both hands out for her father, who was very tempted to pick her back up. He cast a furtive glance around, afraid he was being watched by his wife, who insisted that he not spoil his daughters lest they become little fiends. It was terribly hard on him when identical sets of blue eyes stared up at him with such poignancy. Even worse was when Christine added her baby blues to the mix.

All right.

He was putty.

But when he had two of his ladies curled up on either side of him on the couch, and the baby sprawled asleep in his lap, he knew what Heaven on earth truly meant.

Stoically, he turned his back on her, and grabbed the trowel, smoothing the edges of the tiny footprints. He would save the ones which were well formed, and smooth over the prints which were not. Even when his daughters left their childhood behind, he need only gaze upon their footprints to bring it all back. He worked for a handful of minutes before turning around and eying the playpen. Jeannette was sprawled on her belly, sound asleep, a thumb shoved in her mouth. He watched fondly as her cupid's bow lips sucked lightly on her thumb and stilled. He couldn't imagine life without her now. Erik snagged the peach and white blanket with the nursery rhyme characters prancing across it (her favorite) and covered her with it.

He continued his trowel work, at one point stopping to rake his hair back and secure it at the base of his neck again, realizing as he eyed the girls' footprints in the cement, how far they had come in five years.

Phil had indeed managed to get the assault charges dropped, although the magistrate had decided that a week's stint serving lunch to the homeless at one of the shelters, would be a fair thing for Erik to do. Not wishing to jeopardize his freedom any, he had acquiesced with good grace, and on a sunny day in late winter, he showed up at the shelter. But he had company. Christine, not content to let him go alone, was with him as well as Min. There they stood in the lunch line, side by side as they fed the hungry crowds which showed up everyday; Erik filling the plates with meat and vegetables, Min putting a slice of bread and pat of butter on each tray, and his fiancee, wearing her _very_ tasteful nothing-like-Sorelli's engagement ring, handing out the drinks. Min's therapist at the time, had considered the girl's participation to be beneficial for her. Erik, used to being on his own in times of trouble, was simply grateful for their support.

Also helpful, was the visit to the hospital Christine made to Irving Gilbert, the homeless man who had tried to warn Min of danger and been attacked for it. She arrived at his room carrying a large fruit basket and an offer of employment at LipSync as a janitor. A month later, Gilly was working an honest job after years on the dole, and seemed to be settling in well. He worked his shift with no complaints, and had cleaned up enough to appear to be a different man altogether, but one day they arrived at the club to find that Gilly had disappeared. Christine lamented the fact that for some people, structure in their lives was anathema. For some, drink would always reel them back in and govern their lives.

Erik preferred to think that Gilly had finally decided to look for his daughter.

As he worked, he cast his mind back to the night nearly three years before when Christine had informed him that he was to be a father.

* * *

He had accepted a two year contract from Mark Abba, all the details ironed out by Phil. Christine had begun working with him at LipSync, and except for a few rough edges, she had merged well with the other band members. They took a brief honeymoon after their small wedding, and when they returned, had begun work on Christine's voice using the club's grand. Further work was done honing his own skills at the piano, and one evening a few months later, Abba permitted them to fit in a few songs for Christine, with Erik accompanying her.

It had been well accepted, and they continued her training, club work, and their fledgling marriage.

His mother had contacted him again, but this time she seemed willing to dine on crow. Carla had left town with Nadir, and Claire was now indeed on her own. Would he be willing to try for the sake of blood, a rapprochement? He had wondered at it, content to let the months march by without an answer, until a surprising source of enlightenment spoke up.

Christine.

One night after Min had gone to bed, she joined him in the living room and handed him a glass of Merlot. "Here. You're gonna need it," she said, sitting down beside him.

"Why?"

She took a small sip of her wine and got right to the point. "Min wants a baby brother...or sister."

Erik, not paying close attention responded with a smile, "Can't we get her one of those from Babies R Us?"

"Very funny, Erik. I meant a real one."

He swallowed his mouthful of wine with an audible gulp. "You're not joking, are you?"

"Nope. Wouldn't you like a baby?"

"This has less to do with Araminta and more to do with Christine, doesn't it?" and she had the good grace to blush.

"I want us to have a baby. I want _your_ baby."

Erik looked at her in bewilderment. "Why?"

"Because I love you."

"And I love you... more than anything in this world and beyond it, but that doesn't make me want to procreate."

"Well, you're not a woman either."

His smile was sickly. "Thank you for noticing. I've never really thought about it, to tell you the truth, but what child besides Araminta, would want me for a father? I consider her my daughter as well as yours. I am happy," he replied simply.

"What if I told you you could be even happier? A son maybe. Any child of yours would love you, babe."

"I don't require a son, Christine. What of your hard work? My hard work? We are very close to finding another venue to perform together onstage. I am writing music again, and by next year I expect to be in a recording studio."

"A child won't change anything, Erik. I can sing pregnant. Maybe not as well," and she shrugged, "but we'd get by."

"What about this?" sweeping a hand across his mask. "Do you want a little child with _this_ profile?"

"I've been doing some research on that. They do genetic testing now to check for anomalies. Did you know that?"

"Yes," recalling his mother mentioning that very thing.

"We would know before I got pregnant. So what do you say? Want to think about it? If you do, keep in mind the clock's ticking. I'm not getting any younger."

Erik let out a gusty sigh and quipped deadpan, "I don't know what I ever saw in you, so riddled with age as you are."

"Shut it, you," Christine retorted, ruffling his hair.

A baby. He had never thought of having a child. He had everything he could ever want. Why change that?

And yet...

He had looked closely at his wife, and knew one indisputable truth. He could deny her nothing. Not even his sperm.

"Why not?" he shrugged. "I'm not doing much for the next twenty years or so."

And Christine had squealed in his ear as she hugged him tight.

* * *

" _So show me, show me everything you do_

 _Cause baby, no one does it quite like you_

 _Love you, need you, oh, babe_

 _I wanna kiss you all over_

 _And over again_

 _I wanna kiss you all over_

 _Till the night closes in_

 _Till the night closes in."_

He made his bows and exited the stage, eager for some alone time with his wife. She had been less than happy with him this morning. He snorted. She had climbed all over him, and not in a good way. Their arguments always blew over quickly, especially when there wasn't much more than air and pet peeves to fuel them. She made him the happiest man alive, and the little bumps along the way, well...he never took them too seriously. All the same, he still managed to get anxious when she was upset with him.

Especially when he didn't know why.

When he spied Christine, he gave her one of his patent smiles that never failed to soften her eyes. She had picked a fight with him that very morning over burnt toast, a pair of runaway dirty socks, and a raised toilet seat, treating him like the winner of the world's most slovenly man contest, and pointedly ignored him on the way in to work. Erik had kept his cool, realizing that it was time for her PERIOD. Christine had explained not long after they wed, that any time she wanted him, chocolate, and an argument, (in that order), it was no doubt caused by hormones.

So he had approached her with caution.

"Well, you've done it again," she announced, grabbing his hand and leading him unresisting down the hall to her dressing room.

"Done what?" Clueless, he went back over everything he had said to her since they had arrived at the club. Finding nothing that could have upset her, he was nevertheless uneasy when he spied the strange glint in his wife's eye.

"That damned voice," she growled, as she pulled Erik into the room. She had no sooner shut and locked the door, when she began attacking him, ravaging his very willing mouth, not even allowing him to undress. Feeling a little light-headed when the blood supply in his upper body redirected itself southward, he allowed Christine to free him from his leather trousers. She was showing no mercy to his painfully hard member, as she pulled and tugged at the button and zip until his pants were just past his narrow hips. Admiring her enthusiasm, he had eagerly jumped right in, bending her over the only chair in the room, his eyes dark and hungry as he regarded Christine's notable lack of underwear. She whimpered in pleasure as he slid into her.

"You were very certain of the outcome," Erik panted, as he clutched at her hips.

"As s-sure as I am that you caught every stolen breath I t-took during... oh, love!...during the...the last song," her eyelids fluttering shut at his forceful onslaught.

"Caught them...and uh...um...a-analyzed them. Ahh...no more talk now...no more..." as he moved inside the warm, welcoming place that always transformed him into someone better.

It had been explosive and wildly exciting, and he had wondered if make-up sex would always be this good.

They had remained in the room for a while longer, relentlessly kissing each other.

Life was good.

Erik remembered everything about the next evening. He had helped Araminta with her homework while Christine did the supper dishes. It was one of his favorite times of the day when they were all together. After the girl had gone off to bed, his wife had disappeared into the bathroom for a time. Thinking she was soaking in the tub, he contemplated joining her, when she at last left the bathroom, and approached him with a narrow strip of stiff paper in her hand.

"We did it, Erik. We did it," she crowed, her voice vibrating with excitement. "I had a sneaking suspicion the hormones were kicking in for an entirely different reason last night, and I was right!"

Her earlier words came back to him. Something about needing him, chocolate and a good fight.

 _No. That isn't right. Look at her...she is all smiles._ _No bad mood there._ _Maybe she_ _'s_ _had the chocolate and now requires my undivided attention._

Erik rubbed his bony hands together in anticipation, and patted the couch beside him. "Sit and tell me what we did, because it seems to have slipped my mind," but already, he was thinking back to the way she had attacked him after the show, and couldn't stop a grin at the memory.

Hormones, indeed. _Bring them on!_

She dropped onto the couch and held out the strip of paper. "All that practice and hard work has finally paid off," a wicked smile playing about her mouth. "You, my darling, have earned yourself a well deserved rest."

"A rest? I don't need a...a...

"...rest," he finished weakly.

At last it had sunk in, and perversely he had taken issue with the _hard part_ statement. "I enjoyed every single minute, Christine," Erik said through numb lips.

"So did I. I was just teasing you," her eyes sparkling with delight.

"Ha, ha," he muttered, not amused.

Father.

Dad.

Daddy.

He was going to have a child. _They_ were going to have a child. Sperm meets egg. He felt faint. Should he put his head between his knees? _No, idiot_. That's only in the delivery room. Men pass out there all the time.

"I feel faint," he whispered faintly.

"I'm supposed to say that, Daddy!" she replied indignantly, before throwing her arms around his neck. "I know what'll fix you right up!"

"What?" he had croaked.

"Chocolate."

A father. He would need more than chocolate.

A few scotch on the rocks would hit the spot.

Father.

He had hugged her back, determined to be her steady anchor through the whole ordeal, and after those arduous, wondrous months of observing Christine ballooning with his child, he at last beheld his tiny, red-faced daughter for the very first time.

Jeannette Marie Girard.

She was perfect.

The baby was a few weeks old when Erik decided to inform his mother of the birth. Already over-joyed with his daughter, he had felt the urge to pass along the knowledge that her ill-conceived son could create something as lovely as Jeannette. It was pathetic on his part, a lasting bruise on his psyche that had never truly healed.

Or more like the _memory_ of a bruise, still a little tender, but any lingering pain was long gone, replaced by the love of Christine and their children.

He tried to explain to his wife why he wanted to announce Jeannette's birth, words somehow escaping him this time, and so he said it baldly. "I want her to see my daughter. I want her to know the beauty _I_ have created with you. I wish to take her to see Claire someday, but I don't expect you and Araminta to accompany me. I will not inflict my mother on either one of you."

Christine made a sour face. "Why put yourself through that?"

"When you are called misbegotten as many times as I was, it leaves a lasting mark. I want to show her that I am capable of something lovely."

"Oh, babe...you've already done that! You have shown everyone through your music...through the love of _your_ family. Claire is the one who is ugly. Not you.

" _But_ , she is your mother, and because of her, I have you." Her hand crept up to his masked cheek, "She'll have tons of regret someday... I don't want you to have any. As for us ladies, may I remind you that we can hold our own against anyone, including your mother?"

He had been floored by his wife that day, and had given what she said a good deal of thought. When Jeannette was three months old, the four of them made the drive to Hartford in their new used Highlander. Erik had sold the Phantom to Reggie, as he had planned, and put the money down on the three year old gray SUV. Their first big trip en famille, was to his mother's.

The visit was awkward, to say the least, and almost from the beginning they hit a road block.

What went down that first day, Christine was kind enough to relate to him afterward.

* * *

Claire sat regally in a slipper chair in the old parlor and cooed over the baby in her lap. A small mountain of gifts waited to be opened; she was off to a good start buying her granddaughter's love, but Christine had to stop a rude snigger at the image of the dragon lady as a doting grandmother. Small talk was attempted, the silences between subjects not quite stilted, but Christine's lighter mood vanished completely when the old woman looked up and surveyed her son with wintry eyes.

Rapprochement was over before it had actually begun.

"You're back on stage with a piano," she said with grim satisfaction, but flicked a contemptible finger at his head. "Kept the long hair, I see. Still looks terrible."

He gave her a cool nod. "Thank you. Again. Forgive me if I don't cut it off for you."

"You always were the most insufferable-"

"Babe, can you take the girls for a little walk? Show them that fishpond filled with million dollar koi. I would like to have a word with your mother," and when she gave him a slow wink, he turned and eyed his mother with something approaching pity. "Oh, and would you close the doors on your way out?"

"Really, I don't think this is necessary-" Claire's words abruptly cut off as Erik took the baby from her and led Min out of the room, shutting Christine in with his mother.

She turned and regarded Claire with steely blue eyes. "There's a new sheriff in town."

"Make sense, young woman," Claire said stiffly.

"You understand me perfectly well. Question for you, Claire. What do you think of your new granddaughter?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Christine. Aside from the fact that I detest you as her mother, I am well pleased with the child."

"No different for me then, having you as her grandmother. Erik must take after his father in the warmth department though, because you can make a blizzard feel the chill! My poor husband had to suffer through his growing years with you as his care-giver and protector. And you were awful at it."

"And you are impertinent! I don't see where it's any of your concern how I raised my son!"

Christine mentally shoved her sleeves up to her elbows, dug in her heels, and gleefully cut loose on Erik's sorry excuse for a mother. "My husband is a far better person than you could ever hope to be, and yet he obviously feels _some_ familial responsibility toward his surviving parent. If and when he decides to come back here, it will depend largely on you! And Erik. Myself? I would just as soon make this the last visit. You give me heartburn," and when the old woman opened her mouth, Christine put up a hand.

"I'm talking now, so shut up and listen," Christine grinning wolfishly at Claire's look of horrified shock. On her face, it was decidedly comical. "Since we're being honest, let me just state that I don't like you either. At. All. The one thing I _will_ give you credit for, is the thing you despise the most. His very existence. At least you managed to give birth to him, but mothering had very little to do with it."

Claire reared back as if she'd been slapped. "I don't think you're in any position to throw stones at me, missy! You have no comprehension of what it was like having Erik. The stares and pity. My friends whispering behind their hands, gossiping about Claire Mercer's freakish child! You, who have been blessed with two beautiful daughters, wouldn't know how it felt!"

The younger woman's eyes flashed in anger. "How do you think Erik felt being blamed for something that wasn't his fault? Perhaps it was _your_ genes that backfired. Did you ever think of that?" Christine snapped. "It doesn't really matter though. Bottom line is... I won't have you running him down anymore. So clean up your act! ASAP."

"My, but you're disgustingly full of yourself!"

"Would you like to see more of Jeannette, Claire?"

"Well, of course I would," she returned with impatience. "The Mercer line will continue now, and someday perhaps, Erik will father a son."

"I wouldn't count on that, if I were you. Just like I wouldn't count on another visit."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Of course I am."

"And your terms?"

"Oh, that's very simple, Claire. Even for you to figure out. So here it is. You _will_ treat my husband in the manner he deserves, or you'll never see his daughter again.

"Ever."

* * *

When he finally rejoined his wife, she was wearing a look of supreme satisfaction. Erik said nothing, but a hasty glance at his mother's white face and grim mouth told him all that he needed to know. Claire's stiffly worded pleasantries were a dead giveaway.

His mother _never_ uttered pleasantries.

Christine had royally tomahawked Claire into playing nice with her only child...

...or else.

Jeannette managed to thaw a little of the ice with no visible effort at all. Some of the bitterness still remained, would always remain, because he hadn't had a cherubic face and rosy skin, and Claire's attitude toward baby Erik had been vastly different, but the hurt was gone, washed away by his own family.

His mother held her granddaughter close again, while the parents unwrapped the baby gifts. Martha brought coffee and cake, while they all pretended to be the image of generational amiability. Claire remarked on the child's astonishing resemblance to her namesake, and Christine had taken issue with that.

"She doesn't really look like anyone just yet, but she does have her dad's sweet smile."

Erik regarded his wife suspiciously. "I thought you said that was just gas?"

"Yes, but she still curls her lips up just like you do," she had explained fondly.

"Why that's nonsense!" Claire had snapped. "It's plainly evident that Jeannette has inherited...that Jeannette has-" She looked up hastily at the sound of the younger woman delicately clearing her throat, looking speculatively at her mother-in-law. Claire swallowed the rest of that sentence, trying for another. "Yes, I-I do believe I see it, Christine," she finished weakly.

Erik, secretly pleased by Christine's defense of him, felt for the very first time in his mother's presence, warmth and love.

But it had nothing to do with Claire and everything to do with his wife.

Claire glanced from her son to the woman he had married. Her prior notions of Christine as a cold, grasping divorcee had undergone a sea change.

Surprisingly, the woman had all the signs of being deeply in love with her son.

She was also not above a little blackmail.

"Brava! You seem to take championing my son very seriously," she noted, trying for a friendlier smile. "I will have to remember that in future, if I am to see my granddaughter again," and at the cool nod from Erik's wife, the status quo was assured.

To Christine, Claire seemed to have a touch of gas herself, if that sickly grimace of hers was any indication.

The stand-off averted, they settled in for the weekend, taking walks to the little cemetery on the hill, shopping in Hartford, and even a sing-a-long at the piano, which Min loved. At the end of each day, they tucked their daughters into bed for the night, and bathed in the large claw foot tub down the hall. Erik would gratefully slip the mask off, his skin reveling in its removal, baring his face to the one who loved him the most. They would retreat to the privacy of their own room where it was just the two of them, taking comfort in each other as they nearly always did at the end of a long and tense day.

But even with the new and improved mother-in-law, her occasional sniping couldn't be eradicated entirely. Christine mentioned to her husband that getting a hyena to change its spots, wasn't such an easy task, and finally with relief, he packed up his family and took them home to their suddenly cramped apartment.

* * *

He stood and regarded the very place he had met the woman he loved so very dearly and now called wife, surprised to remember how she had at first irritated him to no end. The place where a little girl had befriended him when he had none. Where he had found love and acceptance.

Wonder of wonders.

Happiness.

And he knew it was time to move on.

They had slowly made headway after his contract expired at LipSync. Refusing an extension from Mark Abba, they had struck out on their own when he believed Christine to be ready for the stage, and Erik was confident that they could find venues to perform their music. And they had, on stages in the city and beyond, even making a few forays into the recording studio where he was putting together a new CD.

Shortly after the birth of their daughter, an idea had begun to form, and instead of pestering his wife with false hopes, he had sent inquiries out to the place where he had spent one summer working when he was twenty-five.

The Chautauqua Institution.

A venerable education center and resort, it was renowned for its musical programs among many others, the public enjoying its symphonies, ballet, opera, and concerts. Along with classes in varied subjects, the compound held lectures on social, political and academic issues, but it offered a wider range of special courses in music, art, dance, and drama. His hope was to find a place in one of the teaching programs, whether piano, music composition, or even violin. Then with a foot in the door, he could push for concert evenings featuring classical music, as well as some of his own pieces, rearranged to include Christine. The Institution had notable visitors from around the world, and would be a good jumping off point for a singer with serious intentions.

If things went well, the possibilities were endless for him and his family, but his arrival to the dilapidated brownstone apartment that wet spring day, and the treasure he had discovered within its walls, had been a life changing event for him. He felt sad leaving it behind as he made a last check for any items they might have forgotten.

"I'll miss it too," Christine said, slipping up behind him and sliding her arms around his waist. "This is the place I found something I didn't even know I was searching for. Funny, isn't it?"

"No," and raised one of her hands, dropping a kiss in the palm. "I found it too."

On a warm June day, Erik accepted the hospitality of the Institution, and an offer of employment, teaching advanced piano for several months of the year, as well as piano recitals, including Christine performing a repertoire of songs chosen by her husband. Erik was even asked to be guest pianist with the prestigious Chautauqua Symphony Orchestra, on the evening they performed Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 23 in A major. When the event was over, Christine had approached him with a fierce pride shining from her eyes, and it humbled him to see it.

With the season's end, and accompanied by their girls, they performed in different venues around the country during the fall and winter, keeping themselves to one recital a month. The theatres and concert halls he had first cut his teeth on, were quick to line up and welcome him back as a concert pianist. To his lasting joy, the performances now included Christine. The rest of their time was spent practicing and recording music at a studio in Buffalo.

For the summer season though, work was centered around Chautauqua. For six months they had rented a house on Institution grounds, the beautiful park-like atmosphere and quaint Victorian homes, making their stay wonderfully refreshing from city life. The administration and folks at the Institution were happy to receive his talent, and approached his hidden face as if everyone should have a masked man on staff. Erik, in his black jeans, charcoal gray shirt (Christine's contribution), and fitted black jacket, lent an exotic appeal to the Institution. Add the yellow eyes and raven hair pulled back at his nape, and the simple fact that he was good at what he taught, it was no wonder that his classes were filled to capacity.

On an afternoon trip to the little village of Bemus Point in western New York where they spent their honeymoon, they had strolled along the shores of the lake and discovered at the furthermost end of the town, an overgrown one acre lot and a rundown house being slowly swallowed by weeds. It was for sale, and though it would take much hard work and a lot of their money over the years, it had been love at first sight for the both of them. They would have their privacy and room for the girls to grow.

The rest as they say, was history.

And he wouldn't change a thing, as he glanced over at the playpen where his daughter now slept.

A hand on his shoulder brought him out of his reverie. He straightened up and met his wife's bemused smile. "You were so far away, I could have picked your pocket. Here," she said, handing him a glass of lemonade, the ice cubes clinking against the sweating sides of the glass. "Fresh made just for you."

Erik took the glass gratefully from Christine, downing half of it while she admired the sidewalk. "It's a work of art, starring your children's feet. Looks like you planned it this way."

"How do you know I didn't?"

"Because you didn't have to chase Jenny down. You wanted her to stay out of the cement, so that's exactly where she went."

"Perverse like her mother and sister," he smugly pointed out, mouth twitching in suppressed amusement.

Christine had to smile at this since there was some truth to it. Her and Min would often argue for the sake of it, leaving Erik to shake his head in weary resignation. Both of her daughters' footprints trailed down the sidewalk which ended at their driveway. On the other side of the drive was soft green grass, soft enough for little girls to run and play on, and beyond that was Lake Chautauqua. Home now, was the two story house made from stone and wood, accented with grooved shake siding, the wood stained a deep walnut, and all of it crouching beneath a forest green roof. The roof had set them back a pretty penny, but she had to admit, it looked good with the floor to ceiling windows facing the water.

She walked over and checked on Jeannette, the baby's lashes fanned darkly beneath tightly shut eyes. Erik and she were like any other married couple...prone to bad moods and misunderstandings, but they wouldn't allow an argument to fester for too long. They would go to bed distantly polite and lay there in the dark, carefully not touching, but awaken sometime during the night in each others' arms, having gravitated there somewhere along the way. Christine liked to think it was their sensible halves doing the thinking while they slept.

But she had often come down on him for over-indulging the children, for her husband, normally with good sense about everything else, always seemed in danger of losing it when it came to the girls, and that included herself. She loved him for it, but that's where their bickering was often centered.

And she knew the reason why.

Erik was generous and loving, but had kept it bottled up inside of him for far too many years. Finding three people for his considerable love and affection to latch on to, often had him going at it with a vengeance.

"No, you can't buy her a pony just because she wants one, Erik! She's bumped along just fine without one so far," she remembered telling him when they first moved into the house.

"But it would teach her responsibility toward others," he had replied reasonably.

"Oh, really? As in... 'can't feed Hermy now, Mom, but can you put some food in her dish?'

"She was looking for worms. We were going fishing, Christine," he pointed out, his patience wearing a little thin. "That's what that large body of water outside our door has in abundance."

"Uh huh. So if Min gets her wish from her fairy godfather and gets a prancing pony, will dear old mom have to shovel oats into its horsey mouth on a daily basis?" and her husband had mumbled something under his breath.

"Didn't catch that, Girard. Say again?"

He had steeled himself for battle. "You are simply upset because no one ever bought you a pony," he responded coolly, "or offered to take _you_ fishing."

She had squealed in anger at his presumption that she was jealous of their close relationship and told him so. "That's ridiculous and you know it, Erik! I adore the fact that the two of you get on so well! Seeing her happy like this means the world to me! Besides...I never _wanted_ a pony. I wanted a-"

"What?" he jumped in quickly, all ears.

"Nothing," she muttered.

"I am not going away until you tell me," he warned, a mulish set to his mouth.

She blew out a gust of air in exasperation. "I wanted a pair of songbirds, all right? Happy now? Canaries who would sing and warble all day long." She leaned into him...despite her present annoyance, Erik was _her_ Happy Place. "My mom had just died and Dad kind of left me to myself for a while. I was...I was lonely, you know? I missed my mother." She made a soft sound. "Hell, I missed my father! He was living so much in his own head...he forgot I was hurting too. Besides he... _we_ didn't have money for something so frivolous," she said in a low voice and shrugged. "Shit. Forget it, okay? It was years ago."

He slid his arms around her waist and bent to her ear, nuzzling it. "I will sing and warble for you all day long if it helps. Let's not argue about this. I promise to be good."

And that is how she had ended up with Hans Solo and Princess Leia on her birthday. She loved listening to them sing, and yes...warble.

Min, as it turned out, was taking riding lessons at the stables over in Celeron. As of yet though, no pony. She snorted. He was probably waiting until Jenny was old enough to make it a matched pair.

And they had lavished love on him. Their first year as a real family, they had teased his birthday out of him (November 9th), and made Erik a cake and bought presents. To this day she had remembered his reaction, making her choke up even now. Min had drawn him a picture, only this time it contained three people (the tallest still remained a stick), a gerbil and one lumpish cat. Christine had framed it and Min inexpertly wrapped it. She had pushed Erik into a chair and handed him the first present.

"Open it! Go on, Dad. You're gonna like it a lot," and he had frozen at her words, staring at the gift in his lap.

Christine observed her very quiet husband, who at the moment, refused to look at either one of them. "Min, go get us some napkins, please."

"But they're already out."

"Well then...go get some more."

"Geesh," she mumbled, but did as she was told.

Christine knelt in front of him and put a hand under his chin, raising it, not really surprised to see her husband's eyes suspiciously bright. "Hey, you," she said softly. "What's up? Can't be the gift...you haven't seen it yet. And the color ain't that bad...for purple."

"You're scaring me, Christine," he said thickly, a hitch in his voice. Ashamed of his reaction, he tugged his chin from her hand, refusing to look at her. "It startled me a bit, that's all. She called me dad," he said defensively. "I never thought... I'm very-" He fell silent when she raised a finger to his thin lips.

"I know," her thumb stroking his bony chin, paused on the slight dimple there. "Min asked me if it would be okay, and I said yes. It _is_ all right, isn't it?"

"Yes, of course!" he answered vehemently. "I am...h-honored that she trusts me so much. Of course it's all right."

"You're more of a father to Min than her real one ever was, so why not? Just because it was Raoul's sperm who took a dip in the gene pool, doesn't make you any less her father. She loves you. _I_ love you." Christine shrugged. "Hell, Scooby loves ya, and Hermione just _lives_ to rub her butt up against your leg! Face it, Girard, you're stuck with us forever."

"And a day," he added quietly. Hopefully.

"And a day," she had agreed.

The rest of that birthday party was mostly forgotten, but the affect it had on her husband would last a lifetime for her. He had a family who loved him, and he knew it.

* * *

Another source of their infrequent fights were her voice lessons. But _these_ arguments led to some very interesting outcomes. She thought the world of her husband. In her opinion, no one finer. She would never call Erik easily manipulated, but he would usually bend to whatever she wanted, whether it was something as simple as what to have for dinner, or Christine desiring him to impregnate her.

That laid-back acceptance ended where music began.

Erik was a musical genius.

He was also a musical tyrant.

Her husband had once told her, 'Music is an expression of the human condition in all of its varied moods. Done well, it is one of the most powerful forces on the planet.'

 _Ha! Second only to you, my darling._

He would not condone his wife's lackadaisical attitude to her voice. Erik demanded (and grudgingly received), the best that Christine could give, never satisfied with a good performance. He wanted a great one. Rehearsals often led to heated words being exchanged, foot stomping (hers), as well as tears. (also hers) His eyes would flash dull gold, his voice a low purr which usually signified that she had pushed him a little too far. In the early days of their marriage, arriving home that day, would find her giving a now mournful Erik, the cold shoulder for what Christine saw as his unrelenting attack on her.

He simply waited...

...knowing by the time they went to bed that night, he would be reaping the benefits of his take-no-prisoners stance toward her singing lessons. To put it bluntly- Christine was aroused by his ruthless teaching methods.

And she showed it in the bedroom. It was a definite win-win for him. Christine's lovely instrument was beautifully realized, and she was turned on by his no nonsense approach to it.

He was dogged in her lessons, a stern taskmaster, having her do the same exercises again and again. Assignments where she practiced breathing techniques and vowel sounds for the amount of time it took for him to see progress, before moving on to her stage presence. According to Erik- it left a lot to be desired. He never raised his voice to her, merely an unseen eyebrow, a grim mouth, or a hissed directive. He never belittled her efforts, but watched her unnervingly with head tilted, as though studying a bug specimen under glass. He was intimidating even as he remained seated at the piano, never moving, until she at last caved, promising to do better. Erik could not be swayed to allow her any fudging on the repetitious practices he set for her to do.

Loving husband offstage.

Demanding teacher on.

Two very different men, residing in the same body.

She adored both.

Little by little though, his direction and her hard work paid off. For a reward, he would play accompaniment to any song she wanted to sing, and she always opted for a duet. For Christine, her husband's voice had no equal.

Life was good.

* * *

She took one last look at her sleeping daughter and returned to her husband's side. "Are you about done now?"

"Just a little more. Let me show you," and with the edge of the trowel, began writing the girls' names in the cement, along with the date. While he worked, Christine stared at the view in front of her- the lake shimmering silver beneath the deep bowl of the cloudless sky, their dock jutting out into the water like a meandering wooden finger. A small pontoon boat tied there, was bobbing gently on the swells from the passing stern wheeler, the Chautauqua Belle. The Belle left Mayville daily, and navigated the lake from spring through fall, hauling passengers up and down its twenty-seven mile length.

She breathed deep, blissfully content, smelling lake water and the lush scent of the late blooming heirloom roses spilling over the weathered rail fence which lined their property.

She stood there a while longer, reluctant to go in the house on such a beautiful day, but she had things to do before Phil, Louise, and their one year old son Owen arrived. They were renting a cottage at the Institution for the week, and once they got settled in, they were coming for dinner. This would be their first visit since the Girards had moved here, and Christine was eager to show them around.

* * *

"This is great, Chris! You and Erik have done a wonderful job on this place so far. When you sent those pictures, I thought you both had slipped your moorings."

"You mean you thought we were non compos mentis?" Christine responded with mock innocence.

"Yeah, exactly... _huh?"_

"It's Latin and basically means... slipped your moorings, but in Erik-speak."

Sorelli put up a hand. "Say no more. I should have known it didn't originate from your mouth."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome," Louise grinned. "But seriously... this is great."

And it was true. The downstairs, was now wide and open, after they had decided to take some interior walls down- from the large kitchen and dining area, to the spectacular views of the lake from the great room with its fieldstone fireplace. The long windows all along the front, gave stunning views of the sun going down over the lake.

Louise paused to admire the gleaming grand piano taking up one corner of the room. Sitting in a place of honor was a framed picture with four crudely drawn figures, the tallest, drawn in black crayon, more of a stick figure than anything else. Also in the picture was a lumpy thing that sort of resembled a cat, two dabs of yellow in a cage, and a brown blob which could have been anything.

"Min drew that four years ago for Erik on his birthday. She added Jenny and the birds a year ago."

"I recognize the cat and the canaries, but what's that?" pointing to the blob.

"That's Scooby."

"Sure, I remember now. She had a funeral for it, didn't she?"

"Yeah. She loved that little guy."

Sorelli rolled her eyes. "No kidding," and gestured to the piano. "Nice."

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Christine said. "It's a used Bechstein, and Erik got it for a good price. It's great having a piano handy. Hey! I expect you and Phil to come to our first performance at Lincoln Center next year."

"When is it?"

"June."

"Did Erik ever replace his tux pants, or is he banging those keys wearing paint and grease?"

"Yep. He did. New tie and tails, shiny black shoes, and some _very_ sexy looking trousers. Ever hear of the Ugly Duckling, Lou?"

"Sure. Who hasn't?"

"That could describe my husband. Put him in a formal suit, and he becomes a swan. Of course, he's always a swan to me, but he was made for those clothes.

"Or are the clothes made for him?" Christine pondered.

"Mm. Yeah...I can see that. Tall and super lean in your basic everyday black. Phil could give your man a run for the money though. Of course I'm slightly prejudiced, you understand," she said with a grin. "What about the female half of the dynamic duo? What's she wearing?"

"Among others...an apple green silk gown. It's my favorite."

"Sounds lovely. So Erik's singing and you're playing?" Louise asked wistfully.

"You wish."

"Get your hubby to sing and it's a deal."

"I'll be sure to tell him, you turncoat!" Christine laughed.

"When's the next concert and where?"

"Hartford, actually... in the Xfinity Music Hall next Saturday."

"So Erik doesn't like to travel without his little entourage?"

"That's right, but finding someone to watch the girls while we're busy isn't difficult; we use an agency that's available in most states, and the expense is well worth it. The release of his latest CD is going great, so we can afford it, and since his return to the stage, his older work is getting snapped up as well. The next recording is what you're looking for, Louise. Famous love duets. Everything from opera to soft rock, with a little jazz on the side. My idea, so you can thank me now or later."

"Do I get an autographed copy?"

"Well, sure I'll autograph it for you."

"I meant Erik's."

"Wait 'til _I'm_ rich and famous! I won't know you," Christine informed her loftily.

They finished up their tour back in the kitchen, and Christine began mashing the potatoes. There was still so much to do on the house- the bathrooms' outdated plumbing had been the first thing to be tackled, for obvious reasons, and they had been replacing the fixtures a little at a time in the house built when the roaring twenties was in its heyday.

Many of the rooms featured horrendous wallpaper; their bedroom under the eaves, having a strange mix of deer and raccoon running rampant in an infectious green jungle, which eerily resembled the Brazilian rain forest on steroids. Christine would often stare for long periods of time at the ugly paper, swearing to Erik that she was seeing pale faces with wide curious eyes hiding among the flora and fauna. Ceilings with sections of mirrors occupied several of the rooms, including theirs, and her husband had insisted on placing the bed directly beneath them, allowing him to enjoy their sexual activity two-fold.

Which is why she spent a lot of time on top according to Erik. He would much rather look at her delectable behind than his own skinny backside.

When Christine attempted to reason with him, he had simply chuckled, a decadent sound, rich in timbre and innuendo. "I can look up at the ceiling anytime I wish, and see a demon making love to an angel," he had stated with satisfaction.

"Yes, but you're _my_ demon, aren't you, babe?"

"No. _You_ are mine," he corrected her, and successfully ducked the pillow she lobbed at his head.

He was a devil. At some point, the mirrors would have to go, but Erik intended to enjoy them until such time that they did. If she was honest, she sneeked a peek every once in a while. They had decided to concentrate on the kitchen and children's rooms first, leaving the others until time and money permitted.

"That man is seriously talented, pumpkin," Louise informed her friend as they prepared dinner.

"And kinky," she added, recalling the mirrors.

"Erik thinks the house may have been a retreat for bootleggers during Prohibition...maybe even a speakeasy in the cellar."

"No kidding! Kind of off the beaten track, wasn't it?"

"With all the small villages dotting the lake, there would have been plenty of folks looking for booze, and don't forget that this area has long been a place for people to fish, or just kick back."

"Now I know the reason for the ceilings with mirrors! This place might have provided entertainment- the horizontal kind," she said with a sly grin. "How about that! My friend, Christine Girard living in a whore house!"

"You're bonkers, Sorelli," she replied with a matching grin.

"How did The Voice do teaching this summer?"

Christine snorted. "Are you kidding? They adored him! He's good at what he does, and interesting to boot. He even had one of his students proposition him."

"You don't say? And this surprises you, how?"

"It doesn't. Not really. He's different enough to be intriguing... and he's more confident now in his own skin. Oh, he always was musically, but socially? Not so much."

"Well, I think that's part of it. There's nothing artificial about the man. Well, except for the mask. Teacher, huh? Think he'd take offense if I called him professor?"

"Nah, he's used to your lack of sense by now; his students just call him Erik."

"Well, whatever the hell they call him, just be glad he was teaching piano. If it was voice being taught and he sang for them, they'd neve let him out of that room."

Christine nodded sagely. "Confidence is attractive in its own right, I guess, but it sure helps to have a voice like sex on two very long legs." She tilted her head in an unconscious imitation of her husband. "You know...in the old days, someone like Erik would have hidden himself away... afraid to be noticed. Fortunately, most people are pretty decent about the mask and those that aren't... to Hell with 'em!"

"Here here!" Sorelli agreed. "So get to the punchline. What happened with the student who had the hots for teacher?"

"He's not interested in any extracurricular and told the woman so."

"That's all?"

"He told her to come and ask me for permission," Christine laughed.

"Ouch." Louise was busily chopping a salad for their dinner, and pointed her knife in the general direction of the road into the village. "That old hotel as we came into town is where you spent your honeymoon?"

"The Lenhart? Yeah. It's closed for the season now, but their Porch Rocker is a staple."

"I guess it would be if you want to take a load off your feet."

"It's a mixed drink, Lou. Tourists flock to the Lenhart for a _Rocker_ and a rocker to watch the sun go down over Bemus Bay. They have floating concerts on the lake which Erik really enjoyed."

"Yeah, I guess he would," gazing out the large windows to where the man in question was standing and talking with Phil. "I dunno, the place looked like it was leaning a little, but that wide veranda is nice with all the rocking chairs."

"You would have hated it, Louise, but I loved it. There was no air conditioning, no TV, and the paper was peeling from the walls, but when we walked through the front doors, we took a step back to 1881."

"You're right. I would have hated it. I don't like steppin' back, but with you two...yeah, I can see it."

"Erik knew about Bemus Point and this area of New York when he was here one summer doing piano recitals at the Institution. He remembered the hotel, and thought it would be nice to come here." She laughed. "At first I was charmed by the old place, then appalled. I thought our house had old plumbing? You should have seen the bathrooms in the Lenhart!"

"Sounds hideous," Sorelli said with a shiver.

Christine merely shook her head. "We had a lovely dinner our first evening there, and afterward walked along the lake, and that night...well, that night was... something special. Erik really liked the music in the Lamplighter. It was the big band sound from the 1940's."

She smiled a secret smile. "He was very loving that night. We had a room above that veranda you admired, and it being a warm evening, we had our windows wide open. No air conditioning, remember? Well, it _was_ our wedding night, and we were both very interested in each other and sort of vocal about it, I guess. Our bed was one of those old brass things...no reproduction either... with squeaky springs. Add to that, the bar downstairs makes a high octane drink called Dark n' Stormie, which the good folks staying at the hotel we're sampling after the concert at the Institution that evening, and we had us a very entertained audience. It was embarrassing after we um... _finished,_ to hear them talking below our window, but as the saying goes- what's done, is done."

"So I suppose they gave you and Erik a standing ovation when you finally made it downstairs for breakfast?"

"Something like that," Christine replied with a chuckle. "They set plates heaped with food in front of us," she said with a wink. I'm pretty sure they thought Erik had arrived at the hotel thirty pounds heavier, and wasted away to nothing in that bed, because they gave him more to eat than he could handle. We sat at a table in the far corner with Erik expecting some of the men in the room to come by any minute and shake his hand."

"Breakfast of champions, right?" Louise quipped.

They were getting caught up on news of mutual friends, and Meg's on again off again romance with one of the dancers in the company, when Christine remembered some interesting gossip to relate. "Guess who turned up at Claire's three weeks ago?"

Sorelli snorted. "I doubt very much if it was you or Erik."

"She's easier to deal with hundreds of miles away and once a year," Christine replied, as she removed the roast from the oven, "especially after I trained her to heel, but you're right. It wasn't us." She opened a cupboard and took out a serving platter. "It was Carla."

"I'll be damned! That woman and a bad penny have loads in common. What did she want?"

"A place in Claire's will."

"That bitch! Think she'll get one?"

"Nope. Erik's mother has a long memory, but she kept Giudicelli busy looking at baby pictures. According to Claire, Carla couldn't wait to get out of there, but my brick up her ass mother-in-law, has no interest in that direction anymore; she got what she wanted when Jen was born. The Mercer bloodline to continue for another generation. She'll die a happy woman now.

"Or whatever makes someone like Erik's mother happy.

"I should say...less sour," Christine added shrewdly.

"She never had the urge to belly laugh?"

"Belly laugh? I'd settle for a weak chuckle, but someday she won't be among us, and I don't want my husband regretting any of _his_ actions more than he already does." She carried the meat platter out to the roofed portico on the side of the house, and set it in the middle of the table.

"By the way, thanks for giving Nadir a heads up to our location. He stopped by on the way to Canada."

Louise heard the note of censure in her friend's voice, and went into defensive mode. "You never told me _not_ to give him your address, Chris! He said he was on his way to a movie part and wanted to meet Erik's youngest lady. Did you know he was going there to make another horror movie?"

"Yeah, it's called Bride of Bigfoot."

"No kidding! I guess he's Bigfoot?"

Christine snorted rudely. "Not likely. He's the husband of the cousin of the best friend of the woman who becomes the bride of Bigfoot."

"Huh? Does that mean-"

Christine nodded sagely. "Yep. It's a walk-on drag away part. He gets ripped to shreds by an enraged Bigfoot...he doesn't even get to speak, just scream." She looked thoughtfully at Sorelli. "You know, he never spoke in Dread the Walking Dead either."

Louise snorted. "Hell, if silent pictures ever make a comeback, he's ahead of the game. So, did you have a nice visit?"

"Nope. I really do owe you one, Lou. He seemed more interested in getting a loan from Erik than anything else. He was really annoying about it."

"Did he get it?"

"Oh, he got it all right. Up one side and down the other. From me," Christine said with grim satisfaction. "He started about how lousy Carla was to him when she walked out, and I lost it. I used to be the poster child for women getting dumped on by men. Unfortunately, Erik arrived home before he left, and Nadir ended up getting the loan after all."

"Why does he tolerate Nadir?"

"Because if it weren't for him, Erik and I wouldn't be together. Don't change the subject! I still owe you one for giving us away."

"Does this mean I have to watch my back?" Louise said over her shoulder as she started for the house.

"No, you're safe," Christine replied amiably.

"Safe from what?" Phil asked, ambling over carrying Owen. "I could live here easily, I think," he stated. "I might have to look at some vacation properties in the area one of these days."

"Well, when you do, you can come and stay with us."

"Wouldn't want to put you out any, Chris. Erik said the Lenhart Hotel is a good place to stay. I want to surprise Louise for our anniversary...make it a second honeymoon. What do you think? Would she like it?"

Christine fought her evil side- and lost. "Trust me... she'd absolutely love it! She's fascinated by the place! But don't tell her about it until you carry her over the threshold. So much more romantic that way."

"That's settled then," he said with satisfaction, and Christine felt a momentary twinge of guilt. And then it was gone.

She looked over Phil's shoulder. "We're still missing one husband and two kids. I'll be right back."

"They're on the porch."

Christine mounted the rickety steps of the old porch facing the lake, slated to be replaced someday. Erik turned, smiling his singularly sweet smile. Jeannette was balanced on his left hip, and Min sat at the small card table.

"Dinner's ready," she said softly, sliding her arm around his waist. She crooked her finger at him, and obligingly, he leaned down. "How about you and me meeting up for a little canoodling later?"

"I'll bring the wine, and you bring... yourself, sans clothes," he murmured, "and I do mean nothing. Not too many days left for those mirrors," he stated mournfully.

"I know," she mock pouted. "What is Erik to do?"

"Erik will find something to replace them, never fear," and straightened up, saying in his smoothest, oily carnival barker voice, "Gather round, ladies and gents! Gather round," and when Christine looked around suspiciously for others, her husband chided her. "Help me out here, Girard!" and cleared his throat. "We have our next vict... I mean our next assistant. Pick a card, lovely lady! Any card, and slip it back into the deck, if you please," and watched as Christine chose one, before sliding it back into the pile. "Now remember your card, while my young apprentice reshuffles the deck."

"Mum, mum, mum," Jeannette squealed nonsensically, and patted her father's masked cheek. "Boo, Da."

Min glanced up at her sister. "Hey! She said it!" and looked at Erik in triumph. "Told you she knows how to say it, the little stinker!"

"Pay no mind to the wee munchkin, madam!" as he blew a gentle raspberry on the spot between Jeannette's neck and shoulder. The baby crowed laughter, and Erik looked at her in mock irritation. "No comments from the peanut gallery! As I say, madam, pay her no mind as I present my...second apprentice to you."

Christine wrinkled her nose. "Pleased, I'm sure, but I think the little miss here has become too excited for her own good, and should request a diaper change."

Erik bent his head, sniffing delicately. "Good assistants are hard to find, I assure you," he sighed with a mournful air.

"Dad means... she stinks," Min said, rolling her eyes, as she finished shuffling, and fanned the cards out on the table. She glanced at Erik, who gave her a nod.

"Go ahead. You know the trick as well as I do."

She ran her hand over the deck of cards, fingers hovering dramatically over them until she pulled one out with a flourish from the middle of the deck. "Is this the card you picked, Mom?"

"Amazing," she said quietly, her eyes softening at the card in her daughter's hand. "Simply amazing. Remind me not to play gin with any of you crooks." She slid her hand into Erik's and turned to leave the porch.

It was the time of day that Christine loved- the tang of wood smoke in the mild evening air, and the peaceful sound of water lapping at shore's edge. They often walked along the lake watching as clouds of gnats in the darkening sky were chased by whirling and swooping barn swallows seeking their own dinner.

Min sat looking idly at the card in her hand. "Dad said the Joker is a good card to be dealt."

Christine squeezed her husband's hand and looked up at him, a loving promise in her eyes as their gazes met and held.

"None better."

 _Fini_


End file.
